THOMAS  R.  RUTTER 

116  TWENT -,•-•• /.••••!  STREET 

SANTA  MGMCA,  CALIF. 


*< 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


BROKEN  STOWAGE' 


BY    THE    SAME    AUTHOR 
THE  BRASSBOUNDER 

"Captain  Bone  knows  the  days  of  sailing 
ships,  and  he  has  given  us  a  log  . .  .  which  is 
as  breezy  as  the  gale  that  sent  the  old  wind- 
jammer around  the  Horn." — The  Bookman. 

"A  ripping  romance  of  the  sea.  This  is  deep- 
sea,  blue-water  life,  and  has  a  fascination  all 
its  own." — William  Lyon  Phelps  in  the  Yale 
Alumni  Weekly. 

"The  art  of  this  book  is  well-nigh  perfect, 
but  apart  from  that  (or  because  of  it!)  it  is  as 
thrilling  as  any  cooked-up  story  of  adventure 
whatever." — New  York  Evening  Post. 

E.   P.   DUTTON   &•   COMPANY 


'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 


BY 

DAVID  W.   BONE 

AUTHOR  OB  'THE  BEASSBOUNDER' 


"...  More  or  less,  if  on  board  to  be  delivered.  Packages 
lo\be  used  as  dunnage  or  wherever  required  to  assist  stowage. 
Ship  not  to  be  responsible  for  numbers  or  condition  on 
delivery." — Extract  from  a  Mate's  receipt  for  cargo. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON   &    COMPANY 

68 1  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1922, 
By  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  rightg  referred 


Printtd  in  the  UnitfJ  Slatit  of  Amfrica 


TO 

MY  SHIPMATES 

AND   THOSE   WHO  HAVE   BEEN 
TO  SEA  WITH  ME 


2125601 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  ix 

CHAPTER 

I.  SETTING  OUT   ......  i 

II.  ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT       ....  9 

III.  A  DEEP-WATER  CRITIC     ....  38 

IV.  UNCLAIMED  REWARDS        ....  44 
V.  THE  SCRIBE     ......  52 

VI.  STOCKHOLM  TAR       .....  56 

VII.  THE  '  REAL  '  CASHMIRI  SHAWL          .         .  61 

VIII.  DROPPING  THE  PILOT       ....  70 

IX.  OLD  PAOLI 75 

X.  JEEMS  SAHIB    ......  80 

XI.  OFF  ST.  MICHAEL'S  ISLE           ...  83 

XII.  AT  BAZAAR 89 

XIII.  THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  NORTH  ...  94 

XIV.  LA  CANTINIERE        .....  100 
XV.  SULIMAN  Bux           .....  104 

XVI.  COASTING  DAYS HI 

XVII.  THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP     .         .         .         .  117 

XVIII.  BEHIND  THE  MAY 147 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  FINDLAY'S  SOUTH  PACIFIC    .        •.         .  156 

XX.  THE  '  BOOTLE  BULL  '  .         .         .         .  161 

XXI.  THE  '  SHANGHAIED  '  RUNNERS      .         .  167 

XXII.  CHOTA  BURS  AT 175 

XXIII.  A  SAILOR'S  VIEW         .         .         .  181 

XXIV.  THE  ODDMAN      ....  188 
XXV.  THE  '  ARTS  AFLOAT  '  .         .         .  195 

XXVI.  SAILORMEN  ON  TOUR  .         .         .  208 

XXVII.  A  CHANNEL  SUNRISE  .  214 

XXVIII.  PORT  SAID — AND  '  JOCK  FERGUSON  '     .  219 

XXIX.  THE  STOWAWAY  JEW  .         .         .  227 

XXX.  THE  MERRY  ANDREW          .         .  233 

XXXI.  AN  'ERCTIC  VOYAGE    .         .         .         .  237 

XXXII.  A  RUN  IN          ....                 .  243 

XXXIII.  "  Hi!  PADD-AAY!  1 "     ...  251 

XXXIV.  AT  OLD  QUAY     ....  262 
XXXV.  SUFFRAGE  AND  BETEL-NUT  .         .         .  267 

XXXVI.  THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE     .         .         .  272 

XXXVII.  His  MAJESTY'S  CUSTOMS     ...  280 

XXXVIII.  THE  CATALOGUE          ....  287 

XXXIX.  FLOOD  TIDE  AND  EBB         ...  293 


PREFACE 

WHEN  a  cargo  is  to  be  stowed  in  a  vessel's 
holds,  shipshape  and  sailor-fashion,  it  is  as 
well  to  have  small  packages  handy.  If  the  lading 
is  of  a  miscellaneous  character,  it  is  all  the  more 
important  that  there  be  available  some  means  by 
which  variety  in  bulk  may  be  packed  securely  and 
all  made  solid  to  withstand  the  labouring  of  the 
ship  in  heavy  seas.  Billets  of  wood,  dholls  of  coir 
yarn,  packages  of  waste  material — clippings — 
roots — cork — all  odds  and  ends  of  the  markets  are 
used  in  this  way.  Though  not  of  much  value  in 
themselves,  they  are  greatly  valued  by  us  as  being 
the  wedges  and  quoins  that  hold  our  cargo  sea- 
worthy. 

These  humble,  sometimes  despised,  packages 
are  called  'broken  stowage.'  We  pay  for  their 
use  by  transporting  them  overseas  at  small  rates 
of  freight,  frequently  free  of  charge.  No  great 
risks  in  delivery  are  accepted  by  us.  A  mate's 
receipt  for  them  is  generally  thus  worded, — 

'  .  .  .  packages,  more  or  less;  if  on  board, 
then  to  be  delivered  to  consignee.  All  to  be 
used  as  dunnage  or  wherever  required  to  as- 
sist stowage.  Ship  not  to  be  held  responsible, 
for  numbers  or  condition  on  delivery.' 

Having  explained  this  much,  it  remains  for  me 
to  trace  an  analogy  between  the  brief  tales  and 
sketches  in  the  book  and  these  useful,  if  commer- 


x  PREFACE 

daily  unimportant,  oddments  of  the  freight  market. 
It  is  not  at  all  easy.  On  my  own  showing,  I  have 
already  discounted  their  intrinsic  value.  Still,  even 
billets  of  wood  and  the  odds  and  leavings  of  mer- 
chandise may  be  trigged  up  to  serve  good  purpose 
— and  are  often,  indeed,  ornamental.  I  have 
implied  that  our  small  packages  are  perhaps 
trumpery,  but,  fitted  into  the  right  place,  they  make 
the  best  of  grounding  for  weightier  and  more  im- 
portant goods.  Let  the  reader,  like  a  good  soul, 
accept  them  without  warranty! 

DAVID  W.  BONE. 


'BROKEN  STOWAGE 


'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

i 

SETTING  OUT 

'TpHERE  were  three  of  us  in  the  steerage  of, 
•*•  the  Rotterdam  boat.  One  was  a  Jew  who 
beetled  his  brows  and  asked  himself  fierce  ques- 
tions in  Low  German,  the  other  was  a  young  little 
Fleming  with  strong  'arms  and  a  hard  head,  who 
told  me  he  had  been  a  fireman  on  a  Vickly'  boat. 
(He  explained  that  a  Vickly'  boat  was  one  on 
which  Vickly'  wages  were  paid.)  I  was  going  to 
join  my  ship  at  Antwerp — going  to  sea  on  my  very 
first  voyage. 

The  regular  steamer  for  Antwerp  had  had  a 
mishap  and  would  not  sail  for  some  'days.  For 
me,  there  could  be  no  going  back  home  after  I 
had  set  out  in  my  bravery  of  brass  buttons  and  bold 
good-byes.  So  I  came  on  the  Rotterdam  steamer 
and  trusted  to  find  a  train. 

We  left  Leith  Docks  about  midnight — a  black 
bitter  midnight,  with  the  wind  strong  east  outside 
and  a  big  sea  rolling  up  the  Firth  and  shattering 
on  the  pier-heads.  I  lingered  to  sec  the  town 
lights  vanish  into  the  mist  astern  and,  feeling  ill, 


2  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

went  below.  How  the  Britannia  plunged  into  it! 
How  sick  I  was !  I  lay  on  my  back  in  a  low  bunk 
and  tried  to  court  sleep,  while  the  'vickly'  man, 
in  bad  English  and  worse  voice,  sang,  'Leedle 
Fischer  Maiden.'  Several  times  in  the  night  I 
got  up  and  tried  to  get  out  for  a  breath  of  fresh 
air,  but  the  steamer  was  driving  her  head  into  the 
long  seas,  with  her  foredeck  all  awash,  and  there 
was  no  shelter  from  the  fury  of  it.  So  I  returned 
to  the  steerage,  to  find  the  'vickly'  man  still  sing- 
ing the  same  song,  but  with  different  words  and  a 
different  tune,  and  the  Jew  would  stare  so  fiercely 
at  me  that  I  felt  sure  he  had  designs  on  my  235. 
4d.  The  honest  Vickly'  man  was  a  friend.  His 
name  was  Henrik.  He  was  going  to  Antwerpert 
to  "shpend  de  dollars,"  as  he  said.  I  told  him 
I  was  going  there  to  join  a  sailing  ship.  He  looked 
grave,  but  brightened  up  when  he  recollected  that 
he  knew  a  man  who  had  been  round  the  Horn  in 
one  of  these,  and  who  had  come  back  with  enough 
'dollars'  to  start  a  beerhouse  in  the  Shkipper 
Strasse — "mit  two  tables  in  'de  shtreet  out!" 

"We  were  for  Antwerpen  then?  We  would  go 
together.  That  was  all  recht,  Zoone!" 

He  showed  me  his  money  in  the  knotted  corner 
of  a  grimy  sweat  rag  (after  looking  to  see  if  the 
Jew  was  really  asleep),  and  told  me  he  had  left 
his  'vickly'  boat  because  Mynheer  Zecond  was  a 
'shwartzkopf,'  whatever  that  may  be. 

In  claytime  the  weather  was  none  so  bad.    The 


SETTING  OUT  3 

sky  ha'd  cleare'd,  arTd  the  grey  sweep  of  the  North 
Sea  was  set  about  with  many  ships  on  their  voy- 
agings.  I  had  my  first  view  of  a  sailing  ship  under 
canvas  on  the  open  sea.  We  passed  quite  close. 
She  was  the  Templar  of  Arendal,  and  was  stand- 
ing to  the  southard  un'der  small  canvas,  for  the 
wind  had  still  a  heavy  gust  in  it,  and  the  barque's 
saltwhitened  timber  'deck-load  showed  that  she  had 
lately  come  through  a  gale.  Already  I  was  learn- 
ing my  business.  The  sailors  of  the  steamer 
pointed  out  the  'different  rigs  of  the  vessels  in 
sight.  They  seemed  to  take  delight  in  telling  me 
of  all  the  hardships  of  life  in  a  wind-jammer,  and, 
when  the  Templar  thrashed  past,  told  one  another 
(for  my  benefit)  how  glad  they  were  to  be  in  a 
well-foun'd  steamer  and  not  beating  out  of  sight 
of  land  aboard  a  floating  workhouse.  Henrik  was 
more  considerate.  He  told  me  what  a  fine  beer- 
house his  friend  had,  his  friend  who  had  been 
round  the  Horn.  Still,  it  was  the  sea  I  wanted, 
and  not  a  life  of  ease  and  comfort  such  as  he 
pictured,  and  in  my  low  state  my  thoughts  were 
none  of  the  brightest. 

It  was  Sunday  when  we  arrived  at  Rotterdam. 
In  early  morning  we  steame'd  out  of  the  rough  of 
the  North  Sea  and  passed  between  the  low  banks 
of  Nieu  Maas.  It  was  my  first  sight  of  foreign 
soil.  How  [eagerly  I  kept  lookout,  sitting  on 
Britannia's  fore-capstan!  For  all  my  boasted  lik- 
ing the  sea,  how  glaH  I  was  to  see  th'e  green  pas- 


4  'BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

ture-lands,  the  trim  little  villages,  the  endless  canal 
cuttings  winding  away  to  the  blue  of  the  horizon. 
Henrik  was  there  to  tell  and  explain:  how  that 
was  the  Stddhms  and  this  the  Loodswezen,  here 
was  good  Genever  sold,  and  there  Tabak  of  finest 
quality.  Soon  my  sitting  was  suspended.  The 
mate  and  his  men  came  to  clear  the  ropes  for 
mooring,  and  over  the  bows  the  high  warehouses 
and  spires  of  Rotterdam  came  at  us. 

The  Antwerp  train  would  not  start  till  three  in 
the  afternoon,  so  the  Vickly'  man  took  me  down 
to  sailor-town,  the  Schiedam  Schiedyk,  and  we 
spent  the  time  in  a  land  of  boarding-houses  and 
zeeman's  grog-shops.  We  had  refreshment  in  a 
small  place.  A  large  signboard  informed  us  that 
it  was  the  'Channel  for  Orders  House/  and  under- 
neath were  the  British,  American,  and  Dutch  flags 
suitably  entwined.  Here  we  had  beer  and  sausage. 
I  asked  for  tea,  and  the  Vickly'  man  laughed.  I 
could  have  beer  or  cocoa  or  chokolat  or  schnapps, 
but — tea?  The  buxom  proprietress  held  up  her 
hands  and  said  it  was  not  in  Rotterdam ! 

We  sat  a  while,  and  were  about  to  go,  when  the 
Vickly'  man  discovered  a  musical  box  that  jingled 
'Leedle  Fischer  Maiden'  in  waltz  time  whenever 
a  pennig  was  put  in  the  slot.  Then  he  sat  en- 
tranced, and  nothing  could  induce  him  to  leave 
until  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  Leith  boat  for  our 
baggage.  Henrik  had  a  small  sailor's  haversack 
which  he  slung  over  his  shoulder,  but  I  had  to 


SETTING  OUT  5 

engage  a  man  to  take  my  sea-chest  and  be'dding 
to  the  station.  This  he  did  on  a  long  barrow, 
having  two  stout  dogs  harnessed  underneath  to 
drag  it  along. 

The  Antwerp  train  was  slow;  we  stopped  at 
every  station  on  the  line,  and  it  was  late  evening 
when  we  arrived  at  the  frontier  station  of  Essen. 
Here  we  stopped  for  a  long  time,  and  an  official 
ran  along  the  line  of  wagons  shouting  an  order  in 
Flamsk  and  French  to  "descend  you  others!"  The 
Vickly'  man  shouldered  his  canvas  bag,  and  I 
followed  him  out  into  a  long  shed  where  our 
fellow-passengers  were  protesting  and  arguing  to 
gold-laced  officials.  Henrik  emptied  his  bag  on 
the  counter,  and  an  official,  after  examining  the 
scant  items  of  apparel,  put  them  together  again 
and  motioned  that  he  was  satisfied.  Then  Hen- 
rik made  for  the  refreshment  place,  and  I  was 
for  following  when  the  man  stopped  me  with  a 
long  fast  sentence  in  French.  I  know  :enough 
French  to  ask  for  the  pens  of  your  grand-aunt, 
but  this  quick  work  was  beyond  me,  so  they  sent 
for  an  officer  who  spoke  English.  He  asked  me 
if  I  had  anything  to  'declare,'  an'd  then  I  under- 
stood. He  took  me  to  a  bench  where  stood  my 
sea-chest  and  bedding,  remove'd  from  the  luggage- 
van.  The  chest  was  opened  and  my  kit  displayed 
on  the  bench.  There  were  my  gleaming  oilskins, 
my  long  sea-boots,  the  sheath  knife  and  belt  (that 
I  had  buckled  on  so  proudly  before  admiring 


6  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

brothers),  my  uniform  with  brass  buttons.     All 
new — brand  new — aggressively  new. 

"Zo.  There  would  be  twellef  francs  feefty  of 
duty  to  be  paid,"  they  said,  sorting  them  out. 

I  protested.  I  was  not  remaining  in  Belgium. 
I  was  going  to  a  British  ship  at  Antwerp.  I  had 
no  money  (indeed,  my  railway  fare  had  taken  most 
of  my  235.  4d.).  The  new  clothes  were  for  my 
use — a  seaman's  outfit. 

"No  matter,"  they  said,  shrugging  their  shoul- 
ders, indifferent,  "they  are  of  new.  Eet  is  twellef 
francs  feefty  of  duty  to  be  paid." 

The  crowd  in  the  waiting-room  had  gone  to  the 
train;  I  could  not  see  Henrik.  There  were  only 
the  group  of  officials  and  myself  beside  the  long 
bench.  I  counted  my  money  again.  I  wished  I 
had  not  spent  so  much  in  the  Channel  for  Orders; 
I  wished  I  had  not  given  the  man  with  the  two 
dogs  so  much.  The  officer  who  spoke  English 
suggested  that  I  should  leave  my  baggage  in  bond, 
and  get  my  Herr  Captain  to  send  for  it  when  I 
arrived  myself  in  Antwerpe.  This  I  was  about  to 
do,  being  the  only  way  out,  when  a  stout  little  man 
came  over  and  asked  questions.  He  was  evidently 
a  superior  officer,  for  the  others  fell  back  and 
spoke  respectfully.  'M'sieu  le  Chef,  M'sieu  Wil- 
groot,'  as  they  addressed  him,  was  an  enormously 
stout  little  man  with  a  round  pleasant  face  and 
little  merry  eye.  He  had  a  voice.  A  voice  that 
rumbled.  A  voice  from  the  soles  of  his  boots. 


SETTING  OUT  7 

He  spoKe  English,  and  asked  me  in  a  kindly  way. 
I  explained  my  case.  I  was  for  Antwerp,  to  join 
my  ship,  going  on  a  voyage  to  San  Francisco.  I 
had  had  no  idea  that  duty  would  have  to  be  paid, 
and  had  not  enough  money  to  pay  it.  The  new 
clothes  were  my  outfit — sailor  clothes  that  one 
goes  to  sea  with.  'M'sieu  le  Chef  fingered  my 
oilskins  and  dungarees,  drew  my  sheath  knife,  tried 
it  on  his  finger  nail  to  see  if  it  was  sharp,  and 
motioned  to  a  man  to  put  them  all  back  into  the 
chest.  The  man  who  spoke  English  made  some 
slight  demur. 

"But,  M'sieu  le  Chef,  M'sieu  Wilgroot,  he  is 
able  to  pay.  It  is  an  officer,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
my  brass-buttone'd  uniform. 

"Ach,  no,"  said  M'sieu  le  Chef.  "You  nod 
onderstand.  He  is  an  'junge  loodsmann.'  It  is 
for  de  brass  button  dey  goes  to  de  sea,  aind't  it?" 

My  chest  was  put  into  the  luggage-van,  and 
kindly  M'sieu  Tde  Chef  came  with  me  to  the  train, 
talking  and  asking  questions.  He  had  a  way  of 
saying  uNo"  after  every  sentence.  Evidently  he 
thought  it  a  turn  of  speech — a  sort  of  finished 
colloquialism. 

"You  goes  to  San  Fransisk — San  Fransislc — no? 
Venn  you  comes  back  again,  'dot  vass  long  times, 
no?"  .  .  .  "Ein  jahr.  'tt.  Dot  vass  long  times, 
aind't  it?" 

At  the  train  they  were  shunting  a  new  engine  in 
[Front.  I  was  looking  for  Henrik.  I  gasse'd  ug 


8  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

the  line  of  carriages,  and  I  heard  him.  In  a  car- 
riage, among  a  crowd  of  rosy-faced  country  people, 
sat  my  Vickly'  man.  He  had  had  beer  in  the 
refreshment  place — a  lot  of  beer — an'd  was  enter- 
taining his  fellow-passengers.  He  was  singing  at 
the  second  line — 'Skies  mid  shtorms  vass  laiden' 
— when  I  passed.  Seeing  me,  he  hailed  loudly; 
and  motioned  to  a  seat  that  he  had  held  for  me; 
two  smiling  countrywomen  bunched  their  many 
skirts  and  made  room.  It  was  clear  that  Henrik 
was  already  a  favourite.  I  stood  for  a  little,  talk- 
ing to  M'siett  le  Chef.  He  told  me  he  once  wanted 
to  go  to  the  sea,  and  asked  again  where  I  was 
bound  for.  .  .  .  "Ach,  ja.  San  Francis — San 
Francisk — no?" 

He  sighed  and  lifted  his  fat  left  han'd,  anb! 
sighted  along  the  fingers,  as  if  he  could  see  the 
Golden  Gate  in  the  dim  'distance.  The  engine 
gave  a  preparatory  snort.  He  shook  my  hand, 
while  I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness.  "Ach,  ja" 
he  said.  "Dot  vass  all  recht,  Zoone,  you  vass 
to  the  sea  out.  .  .  .  Meinselluf,  Ah  vass  for  <de; 
sea  once — but  no — no." 

A  bell  rang  and  we  move'd  on. 

"San  Francis — San  Fransisk,"  said  M'sieu  le 
Chef.  "tt.  Dat  vass  long  way — no?" 


II 

ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT 


Tj^VERY  one  on  the  water-front  knew  that 
•*-'  Day's  Nautical  Academy  was  no  longer 
popular  with  the  younger  men  of  the  sea-service. 
Stiff  old  Captain  Day  was  strong  on  theory  and 
first  principles,  and  the  time  had  come,  they 
thought,  when  'tabloid'  navigation  was  "good 
enough  t'  be  going  on  with !"  The  day  of  the  sail- 
ing ship,  of  long  voyages  and  leisurely  preparation 
for  the  exams.,  was  gone.  Steam  and  steam-pres- 
sure left  no  time  for  going  to  the  root  of  things; 
no  time  for  such  an  old-fashioned  establishment 
as  Captain  Day's.  Now,  Thorleys' !  Ah !  That 
was  the  place  to  go  to  for  'smart'  work.  No 
bothersome  'whys'  and  'wherefores'  there  I  Just 
ndd,  and  subtract,  and  do  this,  and  that!  Every- 
thing up  to  date  I  No  time  lost !  To-day — a  new 
scholar  biting  his  pens  I  ...  To-morrow — a  can- 
didate, with  his  titbits  and  memory-aids  all 
trimmed  and  ready!  .  .  .  Next  week?  Huttfi 
Off  to  the  sea  again,  with  the  ink  scarce  dry  on 
a  new  certificate  I  .  .  .  Thorleys',! 

9 


io  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

For  a  time  Old  Day  kept  up  a  brave  show  of. 
busyness.  Never  was  the  big  brass  plate  so 
splendidly  polished,  never  the  little  wooden 
Admiral  so  fine  in  spick  new  paint!  All  to  no 
purpose!  Even  the  boy  in  the  ship-chandler's 
^downstairs  could  tell  you  that  the  'Academy'  was 
Deserted.  It  was  of  no  use  for  the  Captain  to 
stamp  about  and  move  desks  and  pretend  that  his 
scholars  took  up  all  his  time.  Where  was  the  fine 
smell  of  ship's  tobacco  that  used  to  hang  about 
the  doorway  when  the  sun-bronzed  pupils  were 
'out'  for  an  interval?  Where  the  group  of 
anxious  youths  when  the  fortnightly  exams,  were 
on,  the  joyous  deep-sea  hails  when  the  tests  were 
successfully  over? 

Ah,  yes!  Go  up  and  down  the  stairs,  Captain 
Day!  Go  up  and  down,  humming  The  West 
Wind  as  if  you  had  never  a  care  in  the  world! 
Carry  your  head  high  and  your  shoulders  squared 
like  the  gallant  old  fellow  you  are.  .  .  .  But  you 
can't  'blind'  the  ship-chandler's  boy  who  saw  you 
looking  out  over  the  harbour  yesterday;  and  your 
lips  were  hard  set  for  whistling,  and  your  head 
was  bowed,  and  your  shoulders  were  drawn,  and 
you  were  looking  out,  .  .  .  looking  out ! 


"Twen-ty  years!" 

Busy  Mr.  Rankman  whistled  softly,  turned  the 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  n 

letter  'down,  and  looked  across  to  the  Marine 
Superintendent.  "Whew!  Twenty  years,  eh?  A 
long  time  t'  be  away  from  the  sea,  Captain!  D'you 
know  this  man?  Day,  his  name  is.  Wants  a  post 
as  an  officer  in  the  Line." 

"Oh  yes!"  answered  the  Superintendent. 
"Know  him?  Yes!  Served  under  him  years  be- 
fore .  .  .  before  .  .  .  before  he  came  ashore. 
A  sound  man,  sir,  but  unfortunate  .  .  .  very 
unfortunate.  That  affair  of  the  Centurion " 

"Ah!  The  Centurion,  eh?"  The  Director's 
usually  genial  face  clouded  over,  his  lips  assumed 
hard  lines.  Shipowners  have  long  memories. 
"Centurion,  eh?  Lives  lost  there,  weren't  there? 
A  bad  business,  if  I  remember." 

"Well!  .  .  .  always  held  that  Day  was  harshly 
treated  by  the  Court,  sir,  over  that.  If  it  hap- 
pened to-day,  they  wouldn't  break  a  man  for  art 
'error  of  judgment.'  We  know  now  that  there  are 
such  things  as  wayward  sea-currents.  True,  fifty 
lost — but  that  was  by  the  Dago  emigrants  rushing 
the  boats.  All  who  stood  to  Day's  orders  came 
through,  and  even  the  Court  that  broke  him  com- 
mended his  gallantry  and  resource.  A  sound  man, 
sir!  Sound,  but  unfortunate!" 

"Umm-m !  You  seem  pretty  warm  about  him, 
Captain.  Friend  o'  yours?" 

"Well,  yes!  A  friend,  if  you  put  it  so.  Ancl  a 
frien'd  of  well-nigh  every  shipmaster  in  the  port. 
Quite  half  of  our  men  have  been  through  his  hands, 


12  'BROKEN  STOWAGE ' 

one  time  or  another,  in  that  twenty  years  since  .  .  . 
since  th'  Centurion.  Day's  Nautical  Academy  had 
a  fine  reputation  in  its  day.  I'm  afraid  he's  not 
'doing  much  lately.  The  young  men  these  days 
have  no  time  for  serious  work.  They  say,  too, 
that  he  has  lost  money  in  that  Burton  Docks  Com- 
pany. I  didn't  ask  him  ...  a  proud  old  fellow, 
sir." 

"Aye,  aye!  But  twenty  years,  Captain! 
Dammit,  a  man  can't  know  much  about  seafaring 
after  that  lapse  of  time!" 

"That's  so!  So!  But  Day  has  been  in  close 
touch " 

"Tutt!  Tutt!  Well,  give  'm  a  junior  berth  if 
you've  got  one.  He  can't  do  much  harm 
there.  .  .  .  Now,  about  the  Khandahar.  We 
want " 

The  busy  Director  waved  Old  Day  and  his 
affairs  aside,  and  turned  to  more  important  mat- 
ters. 

So  it  fell  out  that  John  Day  came  back  to  the 
sea  again,  and  found  himself  (in  the  brightest  of 
brass  buttons)  superintending  the  stowage  of  pas- 
sengers' baggage  in  the  hold  of  the  Khandalla  of 
the  Anglo-Indian  Line. 

Things  went  well.  Captain  Barratt  was  an  old 
acquaintance,  and  the  other  officers  (taking  cue 
from  their  Commander)  treated  the  old  gentle- 
man with  a  deal  of  consideration  and  respect.  For 
a  while  the  work  and  routine  were  strangely  new 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  13 

to  him.  Affairs  had  greatly  changed  at  sea  in 
twenty  years.  Seamanship  was  now  steamanship 
...  all  was  hurry,  bustle.  The  exactions  of  keen 
competition  in  shipping  left  no  time  for  the  fine 
touches  of  a  seaman's  art.  Quickly  done  was  well 
'done,  no  matter  how  lubberly  or  insecure.  High- 
pressure  steam  appliances  had  made  any  despatch 
possible;  it  was  a  case  of  'in  tide  and  out  tide,' 
home  and  off  again — a  ceaseless  round ! 

Twenty  years  of  putting  other  people  right  is 
ill  training  for  a  junior  berth  in  the  sea-service! 
Day  found  it  hard  to  curb  his  schoolmasterly 
habits;  to  act  the  part  of  foreman-stevedore  with 
proper  humility;  to  sit  mumchance  at  table  while 
passengers  idly  speculated  on  the  history  of  this 
strange  Chota  Sahib,  who  looked  as  if  he  ought 
to  be  Captain — by  every  hair  of  his  trim  white 
beard.  Often  he  heard  the  whisper  as  he  passed 
on:  '  .  .  .  The  Centurion,  you  know!  ...  A 
bad  business!" 

It  was  everywhere,  that  grim  spectre  of  the 
Centurion.  Ashore  it  had  been  forgotten  in  the 
round  of  work;  here  in  a  little  world  of  shipboard 
the  whole  grim  story  was  recalled  and  told  again. 
The  passengers  talked  of  it.  His  brother  officers 
(while  avoiding  all  reference  and  approach)  had  a 
maddening  note  of  pity  in  their  tone.  Once,  when 
passing  Cape  Trafalgar,  a  quartermaster  asked 
him,  civil  like:  "Beggin'  yer  par'n,  Mr.  Day,  sir. 
Me  an'  Bill  wos  'avin'  a  hargyment.  .  .  .  Warn't 


i4  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

it  somew'eres  'bout  'ere  as  th'  Centurion  wos 
lorst?" 

Still,  it  was  a  'fine  quiet  life  for  the  old  man. 
The  never-changing  sea  was  there,  and  with  every 
breath  of  the  clean  fresh  breeze  Old  Day  felt  his 
spirits  rise  (the  old  spirit  that  was  before  the  days 
of  the  Centurion  and  schoolroom  drudgery),  and 
carried  his  head  high  and  his  shoulders  squared. 

On  his  second  voyage  luck  came  his  way — the 
strange  'luck'  at  sea  that  is  so  often  built  upon  the 
misfortunes  of  others.  The  Second  Officer  was 
left  in  a  Bombay  hospital,  and  his  juniors  made 
a  step  in  promotion.  The  next  voyage,  Day  was 
raised  to  Second  through  a  kindly  hint  of  his 
friendly  Commander.  This — for  the  Anglo- 
Indian — was  rapid  progress,  and  the  quayside 
prophets  (in  the  negative  manner  of  the  very  wise)' 
"shouldn't  wondered  if  Ol'  Day  didn't  get  a  com- 
mand again,  sixty  an'  all  as  he  is  1" 

But,  all  too  soon,  a  change  came  over  his  affairs. 
Captain  Barratt  was  transferred  to  a  new  ship,  and 
with  him  went  Old  Day's  reviving  prospects.  The 
new  Captain  was  of  a  different  type.  A  compara- 
tively young  man  for  command,  he  had  influence 
with  the  Directors,  and  was  being  pushed  rapidly 
on.  He  had  not  passed  through  the  long  years 
of  probation  that  engender  a  tolerance  for  seem- 
ing fault  in  others.  A  capable  seaman  and  Com- 
mander, energetic,  exacting  to  a  degree  of  harsh- 
ness, he  had  pushed  on  with  never  a  check.  Failure? 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  15 

he  knew  nothing  of;  insidious  doubt  had  never 
plucked  at  his  coat-sleeve  in  a  moment  of  difficulty. 
'Lucky'  London  was  his  nickname  on  the  quay. 
'Lucky'  indeed — in  that  he  had  never  been  tried! 
To  such  a  man  Old  Day,  with  his  history  of 
failure,  could  appear  as  nothing  but  a  useless  'old- 
timer.'  London,  in  his  hurried  way,  never  courted 
a  second  impression.  It  was  enough  for  him  that 
here  was  a  man  who  had  been  'in  trouble,'  a  'has- 
been'  .  .  .  who  had  fallen  behind  in  the  race. 
The  old  gentleman's  slow,  deliberate  ways  and 
scholarly  turn  of  speech  irritated  the  impetuous 
young  Commander  to  a  point  of  exasperation. 
Trifles  become  momentous  when  seen  through  pas- 
sioned eyes;  everything  that  fell  to  the  Second 
Officer  was  judged  to  be  wrongly  done.  Now  it 
was  a  sneer  at  'school-book'  navigation;  again,  a 
coarse  reflection  on  a  point  of  seamanship.  Noth- 
ing was  left  undone  to  make  the  old  man's  position 
intolerable,  and  by  the  time  the  Khandalla  was 
homeward  bound,  even  the  man  at  the  wheel  knew 
that  "Ol'  Day  wos  goin'  t'  get  th'  sack"  as  soon 
as  they  arrived  home. 

II 

A  bitter  night  in  the  Channel,  ami  the  Kharidalla, 
homeward  bound,  hammering  down  the  crest  and 
trough  of  a  heavy  sea — driving  through  the  thick 
weather  that  attends  a  sou'west  gale. 

Day  and  a  junior  were  on  watch :  tramping  rest- 


16  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

lessly  a  yard  or  two,  peering  beetle-broweb!  into 
the  murk  ahead,  striving  to  pierce  that  pall  of 
thin  rain  and  driving  sleet  that  lashed,  in  flurry 
and  burst,  down  the  wind.  At  intervals  the 
steamer's  syren  sounded  out.  The  dim  light  in 
the  bridge  'telegraph'  showed  'STAND  BY'  on  the 
'dial,  but  throb  and  thrust  of  the  powerful  engines 
below  told  that  speed  was  up. 

Captain  London  was  racing  up  Channel  to  catch 
a  daylight  tide  at  Liverpool.  He  had  signalled 
from  Gibraltar  that  he  would  dock  on  Saturday's 
morning  tide;  come  wind  or  mist  or  aught  else, 
Saturday's  morning  tide  it  must  be,  or  he  felt  that 
he  would  be  reduced  to  the  level  of  the  other 
Captains  of  the  Line,  who  allowed  the  weather  to 
interfere  with  their  arrangements.  With  the  mist 
deepening,  and  no  gleam  of  the  coast  lights  in 
sight,  Day  had  called  the  Captain  and  suggested 
a  'slowing  down.' 

"  .  .  .  Must  be  getting  up  to  the  Smalls,  sir, 
and  a  lot  of  craft  around!"  To  London  the  sug- 
gestion appeared  in  the  light  of  an  added  reason 
why  he  should  carry  on,  and  he  returned  as  answer 
a  sneering  reflection,  vainly  confident.  "Just  let 
me  know  if  ye' re  afraid,  mister,  and  I'll  keep  the 
watch  myself." 

"I  can  keep  the  watch,  sir,"  answered  Day, 
"...  if  that  were  all.  But  it's  on  your  respon- 
sibility. Left  to  myself,  I'd  slow  down  immediately 
and  haul  out  to  the  west'ard." 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  17 

"Aye,  aye!  No  'doubt  you  would,  no  Houbt. 
You  did  that  in  the  Centurion,  didn't  you?  1*11 
stand  the  responsibility  all  right.  And  I'll  make 
myself  responsible  for  a  new  Second  Mate  on  my 
next  trip!  .  .  .  Hell!  When  are  you  going  to 
understand  that  your  business  is  to  take  your 
orders  and  leave  the  navigation  of  the  ship 
to  me?" 

"Sorry,  sir,"  said  Day.  "Thought  it  my  'duty 
.  » 

"Duty?     Your  only  duty  is  to  obey  orders!" 

"Aye,  aye,  sir!"  Day  moved  over  to  the  lee 
side  of  the  bridge,  and  the  Captain,  'donning  an 
oilskin,  stationed  himself  to  windward. 

London  was  no  'figurehead.'  Fishers'  lights 
leapt  out  of  the  murk  ahead,  perilously  close.  At 
the  first  sudden  glimmer  there  would  come  a  steady- 
voiced  order  to  the  steersman — the  word  that 
meant  all  the  difference  between  safety  and 
disaster.  Once  someone  shouted  from  the  deck 
of  a  fleeting  trawler  as  the  Kharidalla  whipped 
across  her  sternwash.  The  words  were  lost  in 
the  shrilling  of  the  wind,  but  the  hoarse  roar  of 
the  fisherman  caused  even  London  a  moment  of 
anxiety. 

"Lay  aft,  mister,  and  get  a  cast  of  the  lead,"  he 
shouted  to  Day,  ringing  for  half-speed  with  a  ges- 
ture of  savage  impatience.  Slowly  the  pulse  of 
the  big  vessel  was  eased  to  his  orders.  He  cursed 
the  blustering  wind  and  crashing  seas  that  must, 


18  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

he  tKought,  be  deadening  the  sound  of  the  Smalls 
signal-gun.  Listen  as  he  might  nothing  could  be 
heard  above  the  shriek  of  the  gale.  .  .  .  Day, 
returning,  reported  'forty-five'  and  sandy  bottom, 
and  London  went  below  to  his  charts. 

Soon  he  came  up  again,  and  ordered  'full  speed' 
— steering  more  to  the  north. 

Had  Day  seen  the  chart  he  would  have  known. 
The  long  years  of  drilling  a  reduction  of  sound- 
ings into  backward  candidates  would  have  stood 
him  in  stead — would  have  shown  him  that  the 
Captain  (with  lofty  disregard  of  'school-book' 
navigation)  had  omitted  to  correct  the  'cast'  for 
rise  of  tide — that  the  Khandalla,  under  full  steam, 
was  possibly  heading  for  the  foul  ground  eastward 
of  the  Smalls.  But  he  was  'keeping  his  watch!' 
— 'taking  orders' — and  the  Khandalla  with  her 
freight  of  precious  lives  sped  on  her  fatal  course 
into  the  murk  and  gloom  of  a  blinding  sou'west 
gate. 

At  three-mile  intervals  the  soundings  were  noted. 
'Forty-two,'  'thirty-nine' — fatal  confirmation  of  a 
line  of  errors;  the  uncorrected  depths  tallied  with 
a  safe  and  proper  course! 

Hearing  nothing  of  the  signal-gun,  London  at 
length  slowed  down  and  ordered  Day  to  the  lead 
again.  It  was  darker  and  thicker  than  ever.  A 
shrieking  squall  of  snow  and  sleet  had  closed  down, 
and  nothing  could  be  seen  beyond  a  ship's  length. 
As  Day  went  aft  to  the  sounding  machine  he 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  19 

noticed  how  white  and  broken  the  sea  appeare'd. 
Soon  he  knew  the  cause ! 

He  heard  the  steering-gear  creak  to  a  su'dden 
vicious  strain — a  white  line  of  foaming  breakers 
leapt  from  the  gloom  ahead — and  the  Kharidalla 
launched  her  mighty  hull  upon  the  rocks.  With 
[every  torture'd  plate  of  her  ringing  to  the  first 
terrific  blow,  she  climbed — higher — higher — till, 
with  a  heavy  sickening  lurch  to  starboard,  she 
stopped — hard — fast  I 

Captain  London  would  not  now  'dock  on  Satur- 
day's morning  tide.  From  the  swaying  motion 
of  her  stern,  Day  knew  that  the  Kharidalla  would 
never  'dock  again. 

Quickly  he  called  his  few  terror-stricken  lascars 
together  and  staggered  to  the  bridge.  There  the 
Captain  stood  with  folded  arms — staring  stonily 
ahead.  The  glare  from  dial  and  binnacle  shone 
on  the  glistening  oilskins — rigid  pose — expression- 
less face.  At  the  wheel  the  steersman  gripped  the 
spokes,  as  if  the  ship  still  stood  ready  to  the  helm. 
The  white-faced  junior  stood  apart,  staring  at  the 
stricken  Captain.  The  engine  pointer  stood  at 
'FULL  ASTERN/  Quickly  Day  jumpe'd  to  the 
handle  and  rang  'STOP/  Lon'don  made  a  sudden 
move  as  if  to  prevent  him,  then,  with  an  impas- 
sioned gesture  of  the  hands,  stood  still  again. 

So!  ...  Would  he  do  nothing?  Could  noth- 
ing be  'done?  Day  grasped  his  arm.  "Come,  sirf 
Come!" 


20  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

"Aye,  aye '!"  Slowly  recovering,  Lon'don  pulled 
himself  together.  .  .  .  Quite  suddenly  he  began 
to  give  orders.  "Send  Mate  to  me,  quick*.  .  .  . 
Bolt — the  magazine — 'distress  rockets.  .  .  .  Day, 
get  hands  together,  starboar'd  boats — 'for  Christ's 
sake " 

"No"!  No !  Hold  to  th'  ship,  sir,"  cried  Day. 
'My  God,  boats  I  Boats  in  a  sea  and  tide  like 
that " 

"Starboard  boats,  quick."  The  old,  blustering 
arrogant — the  man  whom  shock  had  rendered 
speechless — was  no  longer  there.  In  his  stead — a 
Idetermined  man,  speaking  with  quiet  cleadliness  of 
purpose  that  silenced  all  dissent.  "Gobi  I  The 
boats,  Day  I  The  boats!" 

Day  swung  off  the  bridge. 

On  deck  was  chaos  indescribable.  Hurtling  seas 
breaking  over  the  doomed  ship,  lashing  'down  to 
leeward  in  spurt  and  spume;  passengers  in  night 
attire  crowding  the  gangways,  panic-stricken,  a 
light  of  terror  in  their  eyes — seeking — questioning 
— a  babel  of  cries,  oaths,  prayers;  grimy  lascar 
firemen  rushing  up  from  stokehold  and  below, 
shouting  "Allah!  Allah!"  Steam  under  high' 
pressure  blowing  off — a  deep,  affrighting  roar — 
adding,  with  the  hiss  and  thunder  of  screaming 
rockets,  a  terror  of  sound  to  the  [elements  of 
'disaster. 

Slowly,  from  out  the  'din  an'd  'disorder,  a  set 
purpose  began  to  show.  Day  had  got  some  of  the 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  21 

crew  together — the  white  men  and  a  few  lascars 
recovered  from  the  first  benumbing  shock — and  the 
work  of  clearing  the  boats  was  going  forward. 
Driving,  pushing,  coaxing,  they  got  the  crowd 
penned  into  the  saloon-house  and  stairway,  and, 
free  to  work,  began  to  swing  the  heavy  boats  out. 

Two  out,  and  straining  every  nerve  at  the  third, 
Day  saw  nothing  of  a  huge  sea  running  up.  Out 
of  the  mist  and  darkness,  with  the  sweep  of  leagues 
of  open  sea  behind  it,  a  monster  wave  struck  the 
Khandalla  full  shock  on  the  broadside  and  crashed 
aboard  with  resistless  force.  The  stricken  hull 
shuddered  to  the  mighty  blow,  a  hurtling  column 
of  broken  water  shot  up  mast-high.  Day  and  his 
crew  were  dashed  to  the  deck;  two  were  swept 
overboard  with  scarce  a  cry. 

Swiftly  as  it  had  come  up,  the  torrent  of  water 
passed  on.  Dazed  and  bloody,  Day  staggered  to 
his  feet.  In  the  lurid  light  of  breaking  water  he 
saw  that  the  decks  had  been  cleared — only  the 
saloon-house  remained  standing.  The  boats  were 
gone — a  splinter  of  planking  at  a  davit-fall  was 
dangling  in  the  wash  of  water.  The  lascar  fire- 
men were  no  longer  rushing  frantically  about. 

From  somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  man  in  agony 
called  out,  "O  God!  O  God!"  Dark  against 
the  foam,  Day  made  out  a  figure  crushed  into  the 
scuppers.  It  was  the  man  who  had  been  steers- 
man. With  those  who  were  left,  he  dragged  the 
maimed  seaman  to  the  shelter  of  the  saloon-house. 


22  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

Brokenly,  the  man  told  what  ha'd  happened.  .  .  . 
"The  firemen  had  tried  to  rush  the  boats.  With 
the  Captain,  he  had  jumped  from  the  bridge  to 
stop  them.  .  .  .  The  Mate  was  holding  them  back 
at  'number  three.'  .  .  .  Then  the  sea  came.  .  .  . 
All  gone!  Captain,  Mate,  firemen  .  .  .  every- 
body!" 

Within  the  saloon-house  a  struggling  mass  of 
men  and  women  were  wedged  into  the  stairway, 
striving  to  pass  out  through  the  narrow  door.  A 
big  sailor,  barring  the  exit,  was  shouting  rude 
words  of  comfort,  "Notings,  I  tole  jou!  Gott! 
Af  jou  comes  tro'  de  door  out ' 

Joining  his  entreaties,  Day  strove  to  calm  the 
crowd.  His  words  had  some  effect.  In  the  dark- 
ness no  one  could  tell  who  spoke.  It  was  enough 
that  a  steady,  commanding  voice  told  them  "there 
was  a  chance."  .  .  .  The  wild,  passionate  outcry 
gave  way  to  muttered  prayers  and  the  quiet  sob- 
bing of  women.  "She  stood  to  that  sea,"  said 
Day.  "She  can  stand  to  any  other!  .  .  .  Let  free 
to  work,  we  can  do  something;  all  may  be 
saved!  .  .  .  But,  if  hindered " 

A  tall  man,  standing  by  the  open  'doorway,  faced 
sharply  round.  "A  chance,  Day?"  He  seized  the 
officer's  arm  and  glared  into  his  eyes.  "D'ye  tell 
us  there's  any  hope?" 

"Aye — a  chance,  Major,"  said  Day  shortly. 
"God's  sake,  see  you  to  the  crowd!" 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  23 

in 

A  chance.     Where  was  it? 

Crouching  a-lee  of  the  house,  Captain  Day 
surveyed  his  new  command.  .  .  .  "All  may  be 
saved,"  he  had  said.  How? 

Boats?  Two  were  still  left,  and  there  was  a 
patent  raft — if  it  could  be  got  at.  ...  No !  no ! 
No  boat  could  live  in  that  sea,  of  that  he  was 
sure.  "Hold  by  the  ship,  sir,"  he  had  said  to 
London.  "Hold  by  the  ship,"  he  said  now. 

Forward,  heavy  seas  were  breaking  over  the 
deck — the  bulwarks  were  part  gone — an  iron  ven- 
tilator, torn  from  the  deck,  was  hammering  at 
the  break  of  the  saloon.  Again  and  again  the 
relentless  seas  raced  up  and  crashed  aboard,  sweep- 
ing across  the  sloping  deck  in  a  fury  of  white  foam, 
carrying  all  before  them.  In  the  gloom  the  black 
bulk  of  the  forecastle  head  was  faintly  visible. 
Over  it  seas  were  breaking,  but  at  that  height  the 
weight  and  power  of  the  water  was  gone,  and 
only  blinding  spray  wreathed  the  upstanding  bow. 

There  .  .  .  the  chance! 

It  would  be  nearly  high  water  now.  When  the 
tide  fell  the  unsupported  stern  of  the  ship  would 
part — would  sink.  If  the  bows  were  firmly  fast, 
the  jagged  rocks  holding  their  prey,  the  forepart 
would  remain!  Yes!  The  only  hope  lay  in  get- 
ting to  the  forecastle  before  the  tide  fell.  But 
what  a  task!  That  crowd  (how  many  he  could 


24  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

only  guess)  to  be  'dragged  through  that  lash  and 
fury  on  the  foredeck!  .  .  »  Quickly  he  made  up 
his  mind.  At  the  saloon  door  the  survivors  of 
the  crew  were  already  gathered. 

"Men,"  he  said,  "we  must  get  forward!  When 
tide  falls  she'll  part  .  .  .  just  here!  Quick — a 
volunteer  to  carry  a  line!  Who  goes?" 

A  long  silence.  Some  of  the  men  crept  to  the 
fore-end  and  saw  the  seas  dashing  man-high  across 
the  deck — the  torn  bulwarks — the  battering  ven- 
tilator. What  chance  had  a  man  when  stout  iron 
fittings  were  torn  apart  like  that?  They  returned, 
eyeing  one  another  furtively.  Minutes  passed.  At 
last  one  came  forward — a  mere  boy — Conlan,  the 
fifth  engineer. 

"Av  ye  say  it's  t'  be  done,  Captain,  we  can  but 
thry,"  he  said,  as  Day  fastened  the  end  of  a  boat- 
fall  around  him.  It  would  not  take  long.  No 
more  than  fifty  yards  from  shelter  to  shelter. 
Young  Conlan  hesitated  a  moment  at  the  fore-end 
— a  moment  only — then  plunged  forward  into  the 
rush  of  broken  water. 

For  a  time  a  steady  strain  on  the  line  told  that 
he  was  making  way,  then — the  rope  slacked  up. 

It  was  all  over — a  moment — they  hauled  the 
line  in,  unlashed  the  body  and  placed  it  in  an  angle, 
of  the  house. 

"I  told  ye  it  couldn't  be  done,"  cried  some  one 
hysterically.  The  ship's  surgeon  pushed  through' 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  25 

the  crowd  and  knelt  at  the  body.  There  was  no 
need  of  an  opinion:  a  long  gaping  wound  on  the 
head  showed  how  the  gallant  lad  had  met  his 
death.  All  looked  at  Day  with  dark  reproach. 
This  was  murder,  they  thought,  and  angry  mutter- 
ings  rose  from  the  men. 

"Silence  there!  Stand  by  the  line  again!"  Day 
lashed  the  rope  around  his  waist.  "Stand  by  the 
line  here — and  give  me  slack!" 

"Captain,  can  nothing  else  be  'done?"  asked 
Major  Hyde.  "That  seems  sheer  madness."  .  .  . 
"No  more  o'  this  bloody  nonsense,"  cried  one  of 
the  men.  "No  more  o'  that  murderin'  foredeck. 
The  boats !.  The  boats !  .  .  .  Take  the  chance !" 

The  lurid  light  from  breaking  seas  fell  on  the 
ring  of  doubting  faces.  One  man  among  many! 

"No.  No  boats,"  said  the  old  man.  "God, 
men !  D'ye  think  .  .  .  boats  ...  in  that  sea ! 
No!  If  I  saw  ye  all  stark  as  young  Conlan  lies, 
I'd  say  th'  same.  We  must  get  for'ard !  So  long 
as  a  man  is  left,  we  must  try!  Stand  back  there! 
Sheppard,  tend  the  line!" 

He  was  gone,  unheeding  the  Third's  unsteady, 
"I'll  go,  Captain  ...  an  old  man  .  .  .  le'  me 
go." 

Gone!  For  a  moment  his  tall  figure  was  out- 
lined against  the  white  of  blinding  spray;  then 
the  plunge — a  strain — a  sudden  rush,  tearing  the 
line  from  Sheppard's  benumbed  fingers ! 


26  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

With  a  'dull  boom  a  high  sea  crashed  heavily  on 
the  foredeck.  The  line  slackened  up,  the  bight  of 
it  washing  in  a  sweeping  half-circle  to  leeward. 

No  one  spoke. 

The  crouching  men  stared  intently  forward. 
One  crept  to  the  fore-end ;  there  was  nothing  mov- 
ing on  through  the  wash  and  flurry  of  broken 
water.  Should  they  haul  in — to  see  what  was  left? 
Sheppard  gathered  in  the  slack  of  the  line  a 
fathom  or  two,  and  then  a  strain.  "The  body 
would  be  jammed  somewhere,"  he  said  wearily. 

The  men  stared  at  one  another.  Who  was  to  be 
the  next?  So  long  as  a  man  of  ye  is  left,  the  old 
man  had  said,  before  he  went  out — to  that! 

Suddenly  Sheppard  jumped  from  his  knees.  The 
line  was  paying  out  through  his  fingers — a  fathom 
or  so — then  stopped! 

"By  God!  He's  there  still.  Must  be  near  th' 
head  by  th'  line  out."  With  tense,  ;eager  face  he 
held  to  the  line.  A  minute  passed;  there  was  no 
sign.  Was  he  mistaken?  Could  it  have  been  but 
the  weight  of  water  that  drifted  the  line  from  his 
stiffened  fingers?  .  .  .  "No!  NO!"  This  could 
be  no  rush  of  water.  A  few  inches  slipped  through 
his  fingers — again — again:  the  three  pulls  that 
were  to  tell  him  that  communication  was  estab- 
lished. 

A  wild  cheer,  choked  and  broken,  rose  from  the 
group  of  men;  the  first  heartening  cry  since  the 
ship  had  struck — a  cry  that  roused  the  despairing 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  27 

sufferers  within  to  a  knowledge  that  something  had 
been  done.  All  doubt  vanished  from  the  minds  of 
the  laboured  crew.  A  step  had  been  taken  with 
success;  there  was  a  definite  lead  to  follow.  Giant 
Hope  roused  their  drooping  spirits  and  sent  the 
warm  blood  coursing  through  their  numbed  limbs. 

"Quick!  Who  next?  You,  Jansen!  An  able 
man,"  called  Sheppard.  Carrying  a  second  line, 
the  big  Swede  dashed  forward,  clinging  to  the  first 
when  the  sea  swept  over,  and  working  through  the 
waters  to  the  head. 

Again — the  three  pulls  ! 

The  old  lascar  serang,  livid  and  protesting,  was 
thrust  forward  and  securely  fastened  to  the  line; 
the  signal  given,  he  was  hauled  rapidly  on.  Then 
a  wait  while  the  lines  were  being  set  up  and  a  rude 
cradle  devised,  and  fast  as  the  wearied  men  could 
hand  the  ropes  the  cradle  was  hauled  back  and 
fore,  each  time  carrying  one,  or  two  at  most,  to 
the  head. 

For  nearly  two  hours  the  work  went  on.  A 
ceaseless  rattle  of  block  sheaves  and  hoarse  cries 
of  the  straining  men  at  the  ropes — "On!  On!" 
'The  next!"  "Back,  you!  Back!  I  say"— the 
menace  of  an  arm  upraised.  A  scene  of  desperate 
toil.  A  fight  against  time  and  tide.  And,  over 
all,  the  thunder  of  the  great  west  wind,  the  crash 
of  sundered  seas,  the  slat  of  driving  spray — icy, 
keen,  and  cutting  like  a  whip  lash. 

At  length  the  cradle  came  rattling  forward  with 


28  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

its  last  loa'd.  Everything  had  been  Hone.  Huddled 
together  in  the  crew's  quarters,  seventy-four  souls 
had  passing  shelter  from  the  fury  of  wind  and  sea. 
Action  could  serve  no  further  purpose,  it  remained 
to  await  God's  will.  Whether  the  bow  stood  fast 
— or  followed  the  dipping  stern — when  the  tide 
fell. 

Day,  badly  injured,  lay  under  shelter  of  the  fore- 
castle-head. When  the  sea  broke  he  had  secured 
good  handhold,  but  the  wash  of  water  had  driven 
him  heavily  against  a  torn  deck-fitting. 

"A  rib  or  ribs  broken,"  the  Doctor  had  said,  as 
he  bound  him  with  rude  bandages.  "A  serious 
matter  for  a  man  of  his  years,  if  he  could  not  be 
kept  quiet." 

"If  he  could  not  be  kept  quiet,"  the  Doctor  had 
said.  Outside,  a  whole  gale  howled  its  loudest, 
and  every  nerve  of  the  wounded  man  within  stood 
at  its  utmost  tension,  waiting  for  the  rending  crash 
that  was  to  tell  him  that  his  work  was  good. 

In  that  weary  hour  of  waiting  Day  was  a  prey 
to  the  deepest  anxiety.  What,  he  thought,  if  it 
were  the  case  of  the  Centurion  over  again.  For  the 
main  disaster,  thank  God,  he  had  no  blame;  he, 
whose  'error'  that  was,  had  gone  to  answer  at  the 
Court  of  the  Great  Assessor — but  he  alone  was 
now  answerable  for  every  soul  penned  up  in  the 
gloomy  forecastle.  At  his  order,  frail  women  and 
delicate  children  had  been  taken  from  the  compara- 
tive comfort  of  the  saloon-house,  dragged  through 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  29 

a  wash  of  icy  water — to  lie,  Hrenche'd  and  be- 
numbed, on  the  sodden  forecastle  floor!  .  .  . 
What  if  he  had  been  mistaken  in  his  action? 
Twenty  years  was  a  long  time  to  be  away  from  the 
sea!  Ships  were  different  now  from  then!  The 
Khandalla,  standing,  might  outlast  the  gale!  If 
so,  then  brave  young  Conlan's  death  stood  to  his 
account — a  needless  errand  that  he  had  sent  him 
on!  There  was  a  woman,  too,  a  delicate  lady 
who  had  died  of  shock  and  exposure  while  being 
dragged  forward.  Two  more  to  add  to  the  Cen- 
turion's fifty.  Another  'error  of  judgment' — more 
blood  on  his  hands. 

Perhaps  the  ship  would  not  part.  When  the 
tide  fell  away  the  whole  shattered  hull  might  take 
the  plunge!  ...  If  that  threatened,  they  could 
do  nothing.  They  could  not  even  take  to  the 
boats  as  a  last  despairing  hope.  Deliberately 
he  had  discarded  them  while  they  had  the 
chance.  .  .  .  Perhaps — but  "no,"  "NO,"  to  that! 
Every  instinct  of  a  master-seaman  told  him  that 
he  had  done  right  in  refusing  to  use  the  boats. 
"Hold  to  the  ship"  had  been  his  first  word.  It 
stood  unaltered. 

"Here,  Major — Major  Hyde — Sheppard — 
Jansen,"  he  called,  in  his  agony  of  thought. 
"God's  name,  look  you  if  she  moves  aft  there!" 
Exhausted  by  even  the  few  words,  he  lay  back 
on  the  sodden  floor.  He  had  a  choking  desire 
to  cough,  but  he  dared  not.  Blood  welling  into 


3o  *  BROKEN  STOWAGE '. 

his  throat  told  him  that  something  within  was 
wrong.  The  pain  of  his  side  was  intense,  but  it 
was  as  nothing  to  his  agony  of  mind. 

"Come,  come,  Captain,"  said  the  Doctor,  sooth- 
ingly. "I  tell  you,  you've  no  earthly  chance  if  you 
excite  yourself  like  that.  She  stands  all  right,  hard 
and  fast — and  the  weather  is  clearing." 

"Clearing,  is  it?  Then  help  me  out — out  there 
in  the  open.  I  must  see — must  see — what  can  be 
done." 

Seeing  further  restless  movement  in  any  attempt 
to  keep  the  old  man  within,  Hyde  and  the  Doctor 
gently  removed  him  to  the  forecastle  door,  where 
he  lay  at  some  ease. 

The  wind  had  shifted  to  the  nor'west,  still  blow- 
ing strong,  but  the  mist  had  gone,  and  the  coast 
lights  were  visible.  Out  in  the  westward,  some 
one  saw  the  friendly  gleam  of  the  Smalls  Light. 
By  that  Day  recognised  where  they  lay — on  the 
dreaded  Barrels.  He  thought  of  the  tide-race — 
the  whirling  eddies — the  over-falls — that  ran 
there,  even  in  fine  weather — and  the  thought  sus- 
tained him  that,  whatever  happened,  he  was  right 
in  abandoning  all  thought  of  using  the  boats.  Even 
the  lifeboat  could  not  work  through  that  hellish 
sea  and  tide  in  the  darkness.  Long  since,  they 
on  the  wreck  had  heard  guns  booming  from  the 
lighthouse,  and  answering  reports  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  shore.  Aye — whatever  happened,  he 
was  right  in  holding  by  the  ship.  .  .  .  But  why 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  31 

rd\d  nothing  happen?  At  least  an  hour's  ebb  must 
have  run  by  now.  .  .  .  Why? 

Carefully,  as  in  the  old  schoolmaster  'days,  he 
went  over  the  facts  again.  Half-speed — the 
impact — the  sudden  list  to  starboard — the  swaying 
of  the  stern.  .  .  .  Yes!  Everything  bore  to  him 
that  she  must  part  .  .  .  and  the  weakest  point — 
just  below  the  bridge.  If  this  was  an  'error,'  it 
was  no  error  of  hasty  judgment.  Though  writh- 
ing in  agony,  mental  and  physical,  he  had  reasoned 
the  matter  to  a  conclusion.  Some  opposing  force 
must  be  holding  the  ebbing  water  in  check,  but 
part  she  must  when  the  supporting  tide  had  fallen 
to  a  level  of  inertia. 

A  faint  glow  in  the  east  showed  where  the  wel- 
come day  would  break.  In  the  half-light  the  dark 
masses  of  the  standing  hull  loomed  up — gaunt  and 
naked — shorn  of  all  erections  by  the  overpower- 
ing waves.  Shock  upon  shock,  the  seas  raced  up 
and  spent  their  fury  in  a  wind-blown  mass  of 
spray. 

"Sheppard.  Did  you  feel  that?"  muttered  the 
old  man  faintly.  "A  shudder — as  the  last  sea 
struck.  Half-ebb,  it  must  be  now.  .  .  .  She 

can't "  A  rending  crash  put  a  period  to  his 

words. 

The  mighty  hull  that  had  so  long  withstood  the 
battery  of  the  elements  reeled  to  a  last  resounding 
blow.  Where  the  watchers  stood,  she  rocked  con- 
vulsively. Aft,  the  mass  of  funnel,  bridge,  and 


32  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

'deck-work  swayed  and  tottered.  Amid  crash  of 
splintered  decks  and  shrill  scream  of  buckling 
steel  the  Khandalla,  strained  beyond  bearing, 
parted. 

One  brief  moment  of  dread  suspense  for  the 
watchers!  A  moment — while  the  great  ship 
writhed  in  her  last  struggle  against  a  greater  power 
than  wind  or  sea ! 

Then — the  long-drawn  breath  of  sheer  relief! 
The  after-part  lay  all  but  submerged,  while,  under- 
foot, the  foredeck  stood  firmer  than  ever — jammed 
to  a  greater  stability  by  the  last  tremendous 
wrench. 


IV 

Dawn ! 

Fearsome  masses  of  ragged  storm-cloud  break- 
ing away  from  the  horizon  in  the  fury  of  a  master 
wind — a  grey  and  lurid  clearing  in  the  zenith— 
and  under  all,  the  furious  sea.  Rolling  out  of  the 
nor'west,  white-lashed  by  the  remorseless  wind, 
curling,  breaking,  crashing  into  shoal  water,  split- 
ting on  the  ridges  of  rock  awash  and  hurtling  sky- 
ward in  shattered  columns  of  blinding  spray.  The 
white  furious  sea-whelps,  unleashed  by  the  great 
west  wind  on  an  errand  of  destruction. 

Amid  this,  the  lone  shell  of  the  once  goodly 
Khandalla — a  standing  wreck,  shock  face  to  the 
bitter  seas — a  puny  fragment  of  man's  handiwork 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  33 

to  front  the  strength  and  majesty  of  a  nor'west 
gale. 

From  under  the  poor  shelter  of  the  forecastle 
head,  Day  and  his  wearied  crew  watched  the  light 
grow.  At  times,  a  spasm  of  coughing  comes  on  the 
old  man,  bringing  the  warm  blood  to  his  mouth 
and  lips.  "There  is  no  doubt  about  it  now,"  the 
Doctor  says.  "The"  broken  rib  must  have  pierced 
the  lung."  And  Day  knows  that  it  is  only  a  mat- 
ter of  time  with  him.  Well!  It  is  better  to  go 
off  thus,  he  thinks,  than  linger  on  to  a  life  of 
drudgery  in  the  junior  ranks.  Thank  God  that 
debt  to  the  Centurion  is  paid  in  full!  Fifty  lives 
was  the  cost  of  his  'error  of  judgment,' — here  are 
seventy-three  souls  who,  without  his  action,  would 
now  be  the  sport  of  the  waters  that  surge  over 
the  grisly  wreck  yonder.  If  only  the  lifeboat  would 
come,  and  he  could  see  the  crowning  result  of  his 
judgment,  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  'cast  off.' 

It  will  be  that  hellish  sea  and  tide  that  is  delay- 
ing a  rescue.  Perhaps,  now  that  the  flood  is  mak- 
ing, they  might Near  him  big  Jansen  jumps 

to  his  feet  with  a  roar  of  cheer:  "A  boat!  A 
boat!  De  lifeboat!"  and  clambers  to  the  standing 
rigg'ng-  "Jal  Ja!  De  lifeboat — ant  a  steam 
trawler  towin'  her  out !  Close  to,  Cabtin  I  Close 
to!  Gott!  Dey  rides  heavy!  All  awash, 
Cabtin!" 

Calling  Sheppard  to  him,  Day  gasps  out  in- 
structions. Nothing  must  be  left  undone  to  hasten: 


34  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

the  work  of  rescue.  A  coil  of  stout  rope  is  dragged 
from  the  weltering  peak-hold,  sailors'  chests  from 
the  forecastle  are  lashed  to  it  at  intervals,  and  the 
line  paid  out  a-lee. 

Over  the  sea-line  the  dripping  bows  of  a  Chan- 
nel trawler  heave  in  sight.  Driving  her  head  to 
the  furious  sea,  under  a  whirling  smoke-wrack* 
rising  giddily,  casting  the  water  from  her  in  stream- 
ing cascades,  dipping  anew  into  the  foaming 
hollows,  she  lurches  grandly  on !  Astern,  the  life- 
boat staggers  in  her  wake — veiled  in  driving  spray, 
poised  in  sickening  incertitude  on  a  towering  wave 
— then  sweeping  down  the  windward  sloping 
furrow. 

Nearer  they  draw.  The  watchers  can  make  out 
the  lettering  on  the  trawler's  bow — the  men  on  her 
decks,  bent  and  swaying  to  meet  the  staggering 
lurches  of  their  vessel.  At  last,  when  perilously 
close  to  the  broken  water,  S.A.  076  casts  off  her 
straining  burden.  Steam  can  do  no  more!  Now 
— as  a  hundred  years  ago — it  is  left  for  brawny 
arms  and  stout  oars  to  master  the  eddying  furies 
of  the  dreaded  Barrels ! 

The  lifeboat  scarce  seems  to  make  headway. 
Wind  and  sea  and  tide  are  weighed  against  her, 
but  her  gallant  crew  ply  swift  and  steady  oars. 
Foot  by  foot  she  draws  on !  They  are  nearing  the 
hobbling  sea-chests!  But  can  that  furious  stroke 
last?  Already  the  bowmen  are  pulling  out  of 
time !  .  .  .  Together  again — a  last  feverish  sgurt  I. 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  35 

The  wet  blades  flash,  flash,  flash  against  the  light 
— foam  flies  from  their  dipping  oars — only  the 
crest  of  a  sea  lies  between  them  and  the  line !  .  .  . 
Hard  driven,  she  rides  high  and  plunges  into  the 
foaming  hollow!  .  .  .  Again  she  rises  to  view. 
A  hoarse  cheer  from  the  trawler's  men  greet  her. 
The  bowmen  are  leaning  to  the  line — the  oars  at 
rest — and  the  stout  rope  creaks  to  the  weight  of 
the  heaving  boat. 

Now  they  are  hauling  in,  the  cox'n  standing  up 
at  the  stern,  gazing  anxiously  ahead  for  sign  of  the 
black  jagged  spur  that  he  knows  must  be  but 
awash.  At  speaking  distance  he  hollows  his  hands 
to  carry  a  hail  against  the  wind.  "The  .  .  . 
wreck  .  .  .  A-hoy!  How  .  .  .  many  .  .  .  are 
'oo?" 

Sheppar'd,  braced  in  the  rigging,  answers  .  .  . 
"Seventy-four." 

"Seventy-four!"  The  lifeboatmen  Vast  haul- 
ing on  the  rope  and  stare,  incredulous,  at  the  un- 
steady figure  in  the  rigging.  "Seventy-four!" 

They  had  expected  only  a  few  broken  survivors 
of  a  great  disaster.  Whose  hand  had  herded 
seventy-four  into  that  grim  shell  of  twisted  plat- 
ing— the  only  standing  remnant  that  had  outlived 
a  wild  night  on  the  Barrels?  .  .  .  They  think  of 
the  stout  line  'drifted  down  to  them — of  the  sea- 
chests,  black  and  unsightly  in  the  white  of  broken 
water!  A  master  hand,  whoever  .  .  .  f! 

Cheering  Hoarsely,  they  strainecl  anew  at  th*3 


36  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

rope.  Here  is  a  call  for  'desperate  haste,  if 
seventy-four  were  to  be  taken.off  before  the  jagged 
spurs  of  cruel  rock  showed  above  the  ebbing 
water!  .  .  .  "Another  flag  or  cloth  in  the 
riggin',"  yells  the  cox'n.  "Bring  out  th'  Milford 
boat!  Diwedd-i!  Thirty-fife  iss  all  I  can  be 
takin' !  .  .  .  Hurry,  I  tell  'oo !  Give  us  'oore 
'oomin  an'  children!" 

Nerved  by  the  cheering  lifeboatmen,  the  sur- 
vivors of  the  Khandalla  set  to  their  task.  The 
women  and  children,  in  pitiable  plight,  are  steadied 
across  the  sloping  deck;  one  by  one,  sent  down 
by  ropes,  caught  at  by  brawny  arms  as  the  wildly 
sheering  lifeboat  rises  on  a  crest,  are  unlashed — 
the  cradle  is  swung  aboard  again  for  the  next! 

A  crowded  hour!  An  hour  of  stir  and  action, 
after  the  long,  anxious  wait  in  the  gloomy  fore- 
castle. 

Withal,  danger  is  yet  near!  The  furious 
nor'west  sea  is  not  to  be  so  easily  robbed  of  its 
prey!  A  huge  breaker  swings  between  the  wreck 
and  lifeboat — a  lash  of  icy  spray  dashes  to  the 
;eager  eyes  of  the  watchers.  How  stands  the 
boat? 

Gallantly,  when  the  mist  and  spume  have 
cleared,  the  veteran  cox'n,  sure  of  hand  and  eye, 
bearing  on  the  steering  oar  that  has  swerved  his 
buoyant  craft  aside. 

Again — sheering  in — the  swaying  rope  with  its 
precious  human  load — hoarse  cries,  cheer  and  en- 


ERRORS  OF  JUDGMENT  37 

couragement  from  the  laboure'd  men,  as  the 
women,  ill-clad,  benumbed,  sick  of  a  night  of 
horrors,  step  bravely  to  the  fearsome  ordeal,  con- 
fiding to  the  stout  arms  of  the  gallant  Welsh  boat- 
men. 

A  stirring  hour!  No  one  has  eyes  but  for  the 
scene  of  rescue.  No  one  marks  the  Doctor  rising 
to  his  feet  from  beside  a  prone,  quiet  figure.  No 
one  sees  the  red  blood  that  dyes  an  old  man's 
beard.  Only  the  Doctor,  standing  moodily  apart, 
knows  that  Captain  Day — Captain  Day  of  the 
Centurion — has  cast  off  J 


Ill 

A  DEEP-WATER  CRITIC 


,  perhaps,  and  curious,  the  outcome  of 
a  life  apart,  sailormen  have  yet  an  apprecia- 
tion or  the  arts.  They  see  the  beauty  in  the  crest 
of  a  running  sea,  poetry  in  the  grace  of  a  leaning 
ship,  and  hear  the  music  in  the  sound  of  wind  in 
the  rigging,  in  the  cries  of  sea-birds  circling  in 
the  wake.  Though  they  may  dismiss  the  thought 
with  a  wayward  curse,  or  rebuke  a  sober  shipmate 
for  speaking  of  it  —  'talkin'  soft  an'  that'  —  none 
the  less  do  they  feel  the  influence  of  an  impression, 
momentary  perhaps,  but  recognisable,  when  it  is 
recalled  to  them  in  picture,  by  words,  or  sound. 

Once,  in  the  Walker  Gallery,  I  was  looking  at 
'The  Death  of  Nelson.'  There  was  a  man  with 
the  look  of  a  seaman  standing  by  me.  He  had  a 
noticeable  smell  of  drink  and  was  chewing  tobacco  : 
his  blue  cloth  suit  had  hard  shiny  creases,  as  if 
it  had  just  been  bent  from  his  sea-chest.  He,  too, 
was  interested  in  the  picture,  and,  recognising  me 
as  seamanlike,  he«said  something,  and  we  got  to 
be  talking  about  Nelson  and  his  times. 

uB'gad,  mate,  them  fellers  (the  painters,  he 
meant)  knowed  wot  they  wos  a-doin'.  Look  at 

38 


A  DEEP-WATER  CRITIC  39 

that  'ere  glim  (lantern).  Looks  as  if  its  trimmin' 
wos  forgot  wen  they  brought  th'  Admiral  down 
...  an'  them  eyes," — pointing  to  a  wounded  sea- 
man in  the  near  foreground, — "them's  th'  eyes 
o'  poor  'Arkness  wot  come  off  th'  main  yard  las' 
voy'ge,  an'  struck  th'  fife-rail,  full  on." 

He  told  me  of  the  accident — how  it  happened — 
and  by  his  eyes  and  rude  simple  speech,  I  saw  it 
all.  As  plain  before  me  as  the  figure  of  the 
stricken  seaman,  I  saw  'Arkness  come  off  the  main 
yard,  clutching  wildly  at  the  sheets  and  lifts  as  he 
fell:  I  heard  him  strike  the  rail  and  lie  stretched 
.  .  .  saw  the  running  figures  on  the  deck  .  .  . 
'  'e  never  larsted  th'  night.  We  buried  'im  out 
there:  Taltal,  it  wos,"  said  my  speaker,  involun- 
tarily twisting  his  shoulder  to  an  imaginary 
sou'west. 

There  was  a  sea-picture,  a  ship  coming  up  to  the 
Isle  o'  Wight, — clean  curving  sails,  a  good  sense 
of  movement,  and  a  fine  breezy  atmosphere. 

"Jes  wot  it  is,"  said  my  friend.  "  'Omeward 
boun'.  Let  'er  go,  boys"  he  shouted  loudly  in  a 
sudden  burst  of  enthusiasm  that  made  some 
visitors  glance  round,  alarmed.  A  warden  of  the 
galleries  drew  nigh.  My  mate  stood  back  the 
better  to  see  the  picture:  he  had  a  fine  attitude, 
the  body  leaning  forward  and  his  right  arm  swung 
across  in  a  grand  sweep.  What  mattered  that  his 
legs  were  slightly  unsteady? 

Possibly  my  appearance  of  sobriety  reassure'd 


40  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

the  official :  he  stood  by,  awaiting  further  brawls, 
but  my  mate  was  taken  by  a  near  picture  of  a 
sombre  landscape  and  had  become  silently  critical, 
so  the  officer  moved  aside  and  did  no  more  than 
keep  us  in  view  during  our  visit.  There  were 
other  fine  pictures,  but  we  did  not  feel  that  we 
had  a  right  to  do  more  than  look  at  them  and 
admire.  With  the  sea-pictures  it  was  different. 
They  were  our  world,  and  who  had  the  right  to 
criticise  the  way  a  sea  was  moving  off  the  skyline 
if  we  had  not?  Too  often  had  we  watched,  anx- 
ious-eyed, for  a  break  in  the  clouds  not  to  know  the 
way  of  wind  on  the  water,  the  scend  of  a  cloud 
breaking  free  in  a  welcome  shift;  well  we  knew 
the  curve  of  a  standing  sail  and  the  relation  it 
bore  to  the  sense  of  movement. 

For  a  city  of  the  sea,  Liverpool  has  no  great 
representation  of  her  foremost  industry  on  her 
chamber  walls.  In  vajn  we  looked  for  the  pictures 
of  the  Mersey  that  should  have  stood  boldly  on 
line:  pictures  of  fine  clippers  coming  to  their 
anchors  under  sail — of  pioneer  steam-packets  beat- 
ing out  their  tread  under  short  canvas  and  the 
wind  broad  abeam  blowing  a  trail  of  smoke  to  the 
water — of  Majesties  and  Lusitanias  canting  on  the 
flood.  In  vain!  There  was  little  call  for  sea- 
critics  'downstairs,  so  we  went  to  an  exhibition  of 
modern  art  in  the  upper  galleries.  Here  we  found 
ourselves  properly  confronted.  "Setting  sail  after 
a  blow,"  it  was.  A  large  canvas:  a  ship  pitching 


A  DEEP-WATER  CRITIC  41 

Heavily  in  the  track  of  a  recent  gale,  and  the  crew 
putting  sail  on  her.  It  held  a  great  message  for 
my  mate  (black  smoke  and  an  ever-throbbing 
screw  had  not  yet  dulled  his  sea-fancy) ,  and  he  was 
highly  pleased.  "Them  seas  .  .  .  wot  ye  gets  off 
th'  Plate.  .  .  ."  He  wanted  to  shout  some  word 
of  cheer,  to  swing  his  right  hand  to  the  left  shoul- 
der in  seamanlike  admiration,  but  the  cold  grey 
eye  of  a  tall-hatted  official  was  upon  us  (Huh! 
.  .  .  sailors!),  and  there  was  a  group  of  young 
ladies  near  by,  worshipping  at  the  shrine  of  a  Cor- 
poration purchase.  So  he  contented  himself  by 
nudging  me  somewhat  painfully.  "That's  wot  I 
calls  a  picter,"  he  said. 

A  sunset  over  water  claimed  our  attention.  A 
blood-red  sky  with  no  clouds,  only  a  slight  density 
near  the  horizon.  I  said  it  was  remarkable,  per- 
haps unreal. 

"That's  where  ye  ain't  in  it,  mister.  Look  a 
here.  If  ye  wos  t'  take  all  the  colours  in  th'  locker, 
so  's  ye  had  lots  o'  red  an'  yeller  in,  I'd  find  ye  a 
sky  t'  match  it.  Ain't  ye  never  'card  o'  wot  them 
Dagoes  calls  th'  blood  o'  Chris'  .  .  .  them 
Dagoes  wot  loads  ye  ballast  in  th'  Plate?" 

I  had  not  heard. 

"Well.  It's  a  sky  like  that,  an'  it  comes  afore 
one  o'  them  pamperos.  Min'  Ah  wos  lyin'  in 
Monte  Video  on'st,  an'  we  'ad  a  sky  all  blood- 
red  an'  never  a  cloud,  an'  th'  fishin'  boats  wos  all 
comin'  in — not  rowin'  shipshape  same  's  me  an' 


42  <  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

you  'd  clo  .  .  .  them  shovln'  th'  oars  same  's  they 
wos  pushin'  a  bloody  barren"  He  spat  into  a  dark 
corner,  and  said  something  more  about  Dagoes, 
then  continued  "...  Nex'  day  we  'ad  a  gale — 
'owlin  it  was,  an'  her  divin'  into  it  same  's  we  wos 
off  th'  'Orn  an'  a  big  German  barque  driv'  down 
on  us  an'  took  th'  fore-to'gallan'mas'  out  o'  'er 
an'  th'  boom  an'  started  all  th'  'ead  gear.  .  .  . 
Two  ships  wos  driv'  ashore,  an'  that's  wot  comes 
out  o'  them  skies  wot  they  calls  th'  blood  o' 
Chris'." 

There  was  a  prominent  picture  of  a  fishing  lug- 
ger running  in  from  sea.  'Nearing  Home,'  it  was 
called.  My  mate's  eye  was  drawn  by  the  light 
draught  of  the  boat.  "Looks  's  if  they  ain't  got 
no  catch  aboard,  ridin'  'igh  an'  light  like  that. 
Dunno  wot  th'  '.ell  that  feller  at  th'  tiller  looks  so 
pleased  about.  .  .  .  An'  it  fine  fishin'  weather 
too." 

It  was  an  impressionist  picture  that  annoyed  my 
mate;  an  impression  of  a  scene  in  dock,  with  masts 
and  funnels  and  hulls  all  mixed  up.  The  colouring 
was  good,  the  impression  was  there  if  detail  was 
wanting,  but  the  ships  might  have  been  ninepins  or 
egg-boxes  or  anything.  At  first  my  mate  was  per- 
plexed, then  amused,  then  indignant. 

"'Oly  Sailor,"  he  said!  "Wotinell  's  this? 
Ships,  begad,  or  I'm  a  Dutchman."  He  burst  into 
a  fit  of  rude  laughter.  "Ships  it  is,  mister — an' 
min'  ye  look  at  them  tawps'l  yards.  .  .  .  Ships 


A  DEEP-WATER    CRITIC  43 

wi'  double  tawps'ls  below  th'  main  an'  an  'angman's 
gibbet  f'r  a  gaff  an'  spars  a  stickin'  out  as  thick  as 
badgers  'airs."  In  his  excited  state  he  seemed  to 
have  the  idea  that  a  strong  gale  was  blowing,  that 
he  was  hailing  me  from  the  fore-royal-yard,  that 
heavy,  hearty  work  was  afoot — he  bawled,  as 
though  a  squall  were  suddenly  upon  us.  ... 
"Them  fellers  's  got  some  cheek,  mister.  That's 
wot  Ah  calls  it — blamed  cheek  t'  be  paintin'  things 
like  that.  .  .  .  'Oly  Sailor,  look  at  them  .  .  ." 

The  tall-hatted  gentleman  had  approached,  and 
was  speaking  severely  to  us.  "If  we  could  not 
behave  ourselves  we  would  have  to  go  out.  Such' 
language  could  not  be  tolerated.  It  was  disgrace- 
ful." Shamefaced,  we  went  out,  parted,  and  went 
our  ways. 

I  never  learned  his  name,  but  I  often  think  of 
my  comrade  of  an  hour,  the  man  who  chewed 
tobacco  and  spat  in  dark  corners  of  a  Temple  of 
the  Arts,  and  who,  with  me,  was  put  out  of  the 
Walker  Gallery. 

I  hope  he  has  a  good  ship,  and  is  still  fond  of 
pictures.  I  hope,  even  after  what  happened,  he  is 
not  ashamed  to  show  his  feelings  and  still  swings 
his  right  arm  to  the  left,  his  body  swaying  forward, 
and  shouts,  "Let  'er  go,  boys''  when  he  sees  a  good 
picture  of  a  ship  under  sail ! 


IV 
UNCLAIMED  REWARDS 

'  I  AHE  purser  has  many  friends,  the  weather  is 
wet,  and  the  taverns  are  cosy,  and  so,  though 
twelve   has  struck,   we   are  still   in  the  Shipping 
Office  and  waiting  to  be  paid  off. 

We  try  to  engage  the  office  people  in  conversa- 
tion, to  learn  something  of  the  doings  in  Glasgow 
port  while  we  have  been  on  our  three  months' 
voyage  to  India  and  back,  but  it  is  their  busy  day, 
and  they  have  little  time  to  spare.  We  scan  the 
'Notices  to  Mariners'  with  professional  curiosity 
and  learn  of  new  lights  and  beacons  in  remote 
Highland  bays,  places  where  only  seamen  go  who 
can  name  them  correctly:  we  read  a  long  and 
formidable  list  of  convictions  obtained  by  the 
Board  of  Trade  for  infringements  of  the 
Merchant  Shipping  Acts,  learn  of  the  awful  penal- 
ties imposed  for  overloading  a  ship  or  for  taking 
a  Customs  officer  to  sea  for  company:  interest  our- 
selves in  the  toll  of  boarding  masters,  tailors,  run- 
ners, and  other  'queer  fellows'  being  rounded  up 
for  overzeal  in  quest  of  custom.  Seamen,  too,  for 
altering  certificates  and  discharges,  for  failure  to 
join,  for  desertion  and  insubordination,  have  their 

44 


UNCLAIMED  REWARDS  45 

punishments  here  recorded,  and  the  large  board, 
heavily  placarded  with  untidy  leaflets,  forms  a 
sorry  record  of  seafaring  iniquity — a  sort  of  mari- 
time black  list. 

Depressed  by  these  records  of  legal  proceedings, 
it  is  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  we  turn  to  'Un- 
claimed Rewards,'  a  large  bill  with  strong  black 
headlines  that  attracts  our  attention,  and  we 
employ  ourselves  conjecturing  the  possible  where- 
abouts of  those  absent-minded  mariners  whose 
awards  the  Board  of  Trade  are  at  such  pains  to 
advertise.  Here  and  there  on  the  list  there  are 
names  scored  through:  some  have  come  by  their 
own;  but  the  placard  is  of  a  long  date  and  stained 
by  time. 

Here  are  gold,  silver,  and  bronze  medals;  sex- 
tants, binoculars,  and  silver  plate;  diplomas,  and 
sums  of  money  ranging  from  an  item  of  193.  2%d. 
(the  exchange  would  make  the  odd  coppers)  to  an 
award  of  £72  by  a  South  American  Government 
for  wrongeous  arrest.  The  list  reminds  us  that 
adventure  and  romance  are  still  to  be  met  at  sea. 
Gallantry  unheralded  by  the  Press,  unnoticed  by 
the  pwblic,  and  only  recorded  in  some  obscure 
log-book,  is  here  set  out  in  single  lines,  cold  and 
terse,  of  official  print.  Although  British  seamen 
for  the  time  being,  these  unvoiced  heroes  are 
mostly  of  foreign  birth,  men  of  all  nations  who 
answer  to  the  sailor  terms  of  'Dutchman'  or 
'Dago.'  Serving  from  time  to  time  under  many 


46  *  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

flags,  they  are  not  so  easily  traced  as  the  Britisher, 
and  thus  their  awards  fall  to  be  advertised  in  the 
Shipping  Offices.  We  hazard  opinions  to  account 
for  the  difficulty  in  tracing  seamen. 

"Desertions  abroad,"  says  the  Mate.  "Con- 
scription on  the  Continent  too.  Most  of  these 
foreign  seamen  serving  with  us  have  little  liking 
for  official  enquiries:  too  often  it  ends  in  their 
being  hauled  off  to  the  'happy  Vaterlant'  and  a 
year's  spell  in  a  disciplinary  battalion.  ...  So  Yon 
Shmit  von  Liverbool  becomes  George  Davis,  b'long 
Hool  on  his  next  voyage.  He  would  find  it  pretty 
hard  to  prove  his  identity  after  such  a  walk 
round." 

It  is  still  raining  outside,  and  above  the  glazed 
part  of  the  office  windows  I  can  see  the  flags  of 
the  Channel  boats  hanging  motionless  against  the 
masts.  From  the  next  room  the  official  voice  of 
a  deputy  superintendent  reaches  us.  He  is  read- 
ing in  a  passionless  monotone  the  text  of  obliga- 
tions and  emoluments,  of  fines  and  forfeitures,  to 
a  depressed  and  motley  crowd  who  are  signing 
on  for  the  westward.  Having  read  the  articles 
he  repeats  the  important  part  of  the  agreement, 
"that  the  crew  are  to  be  on  board,  sober,  at  five 
minutes  past  twelve  midnight."  Then  there  is  a 
shuffling  of  feet,  rustling  of  waterproofs,  and  sub- 
dued hum,  as  the  men  stand  forward  to  sign.  I 
turn  again  to  the  poster. 


UNCLAIMED  REWARDS  47 

"J.  Jansen,  seaman  of  the  barque  Maria  of 
Yarmouth,  N.S.  .  .  .  £2,  for  rescue  of  crew  of 
brigantine  Lauretta  of  Beaumaris." 

Not  a  very  princely  sum,  indeed,  but  it  is  not 
likely  that  J.  Jansen  thought  of  £2  .  .  .  or  £22 
.  .  .  when  he  took  his  place  on  the  heaving 
thwart.  Where  is  J.  Jansen  now?  Has  he  met 
the  fate  from  which  he  helped  to  rescue  the  crew 
of  the  Lauretta  of  Beaumaris,  or  does  he  consider 
his  gallant  action  as  merely  a  bit  of  a  yarn  to  help 
out  a  dreary  middle  watch?  Delay  in  granting 
the  award  has  possibly  helped  him  to  forget  the 
occasion  that  called  for  it,  and  he  may  now  be 
shouldering  a  musket  on  the  ramparts  by  the 
Scheldt  or  combing  the  beach  at  Callao,  ignorant 
that  his  deed  has  called  forth  more  than  the  cheers 
of  his  whilom  shipmates ! 

"Seaman  and  boy  of  smack  Ark  of  Hull,  for 
services  to  crew  of  Alma.  ...  £2  ..."  Their 
very  names  unknown ! 

"Amos  Stradlander,  mate;  Jan  Mayer,  steward; 
and  three  others,  all  of  the  barque  Chinampas  of 
Pictou,  .  .  .  for  rescue  of  crew  of  ship  Ellerbank 
of  Liverpool." 

A  mate  and  four  hands — a  boat's  crew!  Queer 
place  that  for  a  steward — second  hand  in  a  life- 
boat !  Evidently  it  was  a  call  for  volunteers.  One 
could  picture  the  scene.  A  huge  Atlantic  sea  and 
swell  and  a  foul  black  sky.  The  Ellerbank  rolling 


48  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

in  the  trough  of  the  sea  like  a  "dead  thing,  her 
boats  gone,  and  signals  of  distress  flying  from 
what  once  were  tall  and  shapely  spars.  The 
Chinampas  hove  to  to  windward  of  the  wreck,  and 
her  captain  and  mate  talking  of  the  'chances.'  To 
leeward  of  the  quarterhouse  the  crew  would  be 
gathered,  huddled  and  bent  to  meet  the  driving, 
biting  sea  and  spray.  Anxious  eyes  are  cast  on 
the  towering  sea  and  on  the  wreck,  muttered  mis- 
givings pass  from  man  to  man,  and  ever  their  eyes 
turn  to  the  two  officers  talking  together  of  the 
'chances.'  Here  is  no  multitude  to  applaud,  no 
amphitheatre  for  a  deed  of  valour!  Naught  but 
two  lone  ships  on  a  heaving  sea;  .  .  .  the  mate 
starts  to  take  off  his  heavy  sea-boots  and  the  cap- 
tain asks  for  a  crew. 

At  first,  no  answer  to  the  call.  The  men  hang 
back,  eyeing  one  another  furtively;  an  elder  hand 
stares  long  to  windward  and  shakes  his  head. 
And  now  the  steward  (probably  seaman  as  well, 
for  they  have  no  use  for  idlers  aboard  these 
bluenose  barques)  steps  forward  and  ranges  him- 
self by  the  mate.  .  .  .  And  that "What? 

Hang  back  when  a  'dish-washer'  stands  out?"  No 
hesitation  now!  So  the  boat  is  manned  and 

The  rustle  of  papers  and  the  ring  of  coin  bring 
me  back  to  the  rainy  Broomielaw  and  the  Shipping 
Office.  I  hear  my  name  called  in  an  official  under- 
tone, and  turn  to  find  the  Chief  counting  his  money 


UNCLAIMED  REWARDS  49 

and  the  purser  handling  my  account  of  wages.  I 
transact  my  little  business,  pipeclay  my  ship's 
account,  and  stow  the  balance  away  in  my  stamp 
case. 

Business  has  now  become  slack  in  the  Shipping 
Office,  and,  but  for  our  signing  off,  there  is  little 
to  do.  The  junior  clerks  are  taking  the  paper 
off  their  cuffs  and  are  preening  themselves  before 
going  out  to  lunch.  At  the  end  desk  a  maudlin 
seaman  is  stating,  for  the  benefit  of  nobody  in 
particular,  his  definite  opinion  of  his  late  captain's 
course  of  conduct.  The  stalwart  indoor  police- 
man who  attends  to  these  little  affairs  eyes  him 
tolerantly,  but  not  without  professional  interest. 

We  pass  out  into  the  rainy  street  and  find  a 
crowd  of  seamen  about  the  doors  seeking  employ- 
ment. A  dreary-looking  crov/d  indeed,  listlessly 
pacing  to  and  fro  in  twos  and  threes  in  the  lee 
of  the  high  buildings.  They  are  mostly  foreigners 
and  coloured  men,  for  the  local  seamen  and  west 
Highlandmen,  relying  on  the  presence  of  a  stout 
countryman  in  the  Office  (who  will  send  round  a 
'fiery  cross  when  'sights'  are  going),  are  seated  in 
the  Bethel  reading-room,  turning  over  the  pictures, 
as  like  as  not,  in  last  century's  Illustrated  London 
News. 

Down  the  street,  taking  the  whole  breadth'  of 
the  pavement,  a  'homeward  bounder'  steers  an 
erratic  course.  By  the  trim  of-him,  he  has  been 


50  'BROKEN  STOWAGE') 

newly  paid  off  and  is  flush  of  a  long  voyage's  pay. 
He  has  on  a  decent  suit  of  very  new  and  very 
blue  serge.  He  waves  a  brand-new  yellow  kid 
glove  to  emphasise  his  loud  but  incoherent  re- 
marks. (Its  fellow  is  probably  lying  among  the 
sawdust  in  some  sailor-town  public-house.)  His 
clothes,  all  mud  adown  one  side,  show  that  the 
last  publican  he  has  visited  has  had  jealous  regard 
for  his  licence.  The  polish  on  his  fine  new  boots 
shows  the  activity  of  the  Broomielaw  shoeblacks, 
and  his  good  felt  hat  (but  for  a  dinge  and  a  smear 
of  mud)  must  have  cost  a  solid  sum.  The  sea- 
men about  the  Office  doors  make  way  for  him, 
sympathetically,  and  with  many  envious  glances. 
(Some  among  them  would  quite  likely  have  been 
in  the  same  prosperous  condition  a  week  ago.) 
He  lurches  heavily  past  us,  asking  himself  ques- 
tions in  a  many-vowelled  dialect  of  northern 
Europe,  and  bears  up  for  the  lona  Vaults,  several 
of  the  'hard  ups'  following,  in  case  he  should  have 
a  difficulty  in  procuring  supplies.  We  gaze  after 
him  with  nothing  of  contempt  in  our  looks,  for 
have  we  not  just  been  reading  of  'unclaimed 
rewards'  ? 

At  the  corner  he  pauses  to  throw  a  curse  and 
a  shilling  at  an  importuning  street  urchin.  He 
collides  violently  with  a  lamp-post,  and  appeals 
to  many  deities  against  the  presence  of  such  an 
obstruction  to  safe  navigation. 

I  think  of  a  mate  taking  off  his  heavy  sea-boots, 


UNCLAIMED  REWARDS  51 

of  a  captain  asking  for  a  crew,  an'd  turn  to  have 
another  look  at  'Jack  ashore.' 

Qulen  sabe?  He  may  be  J.  Jansen  or  even  Jan 
Mayer,  once  steward  of  the  barque  Chinampas, 
of  Pictou. 


THE  SCRIBE 

ANNAJI  SAKHARAM  is  his  name,  an'd  he  sits 
low  on  the  verandah  of  the  little  branch 
Post  Office  outside  the  Prince's  Dock  Gate.  He 
is  quite  unofficial,  and  has  no  legitimate  connec- 
tion with  the  'dignified  B.A.  who  issues  stamps  and 
Money  Orders  at  the  wicket.  True,  I  have  seen 
them  conversing  amiably  together  when  business 
is  slack,  or  when  some  untoward  event  has  hap- 
pened in  the  vicinity,  but  for  the  most  part  they 
preserve  an  air  of  distance  during  business  hours. 
The  verandah  lies  north  and  south,  and  it  is  only 
in  the  forenoons,  when  the  sun  is  behind  the  Office, 
that  Annaji  is  prepared  to  attend  to  his  clients. 
He  comes,  then,  about  eight  in  the  morning,  sets 
out  his  low  stool,  his  portfolio  of  papers,  his  pens, 
ink,  sealing-wax, — his  pouch  of  betel-nut  and  lime 
he  puts  carefully  on  a  sheltered  ledge.  I  think 
he  has  two  turbans.  I  have  seen  him  walking 
on  the  street,  and  his  appearance  then  'did  not  seem 
to  me  to  be  so  dignified  as  when  he  sits  writing  his 
letters.  I  think  he  must  have  an  ordinary  head- 
'dress  for  leisure — I  know  he  has  an  important  one 

52 


THE  SCRIBE  53 

with  a  gold  threa'd  an'd  scalloped  edges  for  busi- 
ness hours.  Then, — his  spectacles.  Ah!  Never 
did  spectacles  express  so  much  learning  and  ex- 
perience as  Annaji's.  They  are  quite  round,  with 
thick  nickel  rims;  the  curves  of  the  plated  holders 
go  completely  round  his  ears  and  stick  out  under 
the  lobes  like  pendent  jewellery.  He  wears  the 
glasses  low  down  on  his  nose,  and  peers  over  the 
tops  when  interrogating  his  clients.  Annaji's  face 
is  placid  and  unlined,  so  it  is  difficult  to  come  at 
his  age;  but  it  is  many  years  now  since  first  I  saw 
him  sitting,  cross-legged,  at  his  writing,  and  he 
looks  the  same  now  as  then. 

Truly,  Annaji  Sakharam  has  all  the  secrets  of 
the  Bunder  at  his  finger-ends.  He  it  is  who  writes 
all  the  letters,  the  petitions,  the  statements  for  the 
waterside  folk.  He  can  turn  them  out  in  Marathi, 
Urdu,  Indo-por,  and  English — though  it  is  at  the 
latter  he  shines.  If  you  are  Albuquerque  de  Loma, 
and  your  wife  Concepcion,  down  at  Goa,  has  writ- 
ten to  you  for  more  money,  there  is  nothing  easier 
than  to  sit  cross-legged  by  Annaji's  side,  state  your 
case  clearly,  and  leave  it  to  him  to  explain  to  her 
that  rupees  do  not  grow  readily  on  the  trees. 
Should  you  be  Najib  Shaboodeen  Abdooraman, 
lascar  serang,  and  wishful  to  draw  your  Chief 
Officer's  attention  to  the  small  matter  of  a  rise 
in  your  pay,  no  one  can  better  put  forth  your 
claims  than  Annaji,  the  scribe.  He  will  question 
you — for  so  far  as  that  is  needful — but  you  may 


54  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

take  it  that  your  confidence  will  not  He  abuse'd. 
While  it  is  true  that  there  is  a  regular  tariff  in 
the  matter  of  letter-writing,  I  have  the  idea  that 
there  is  some  such  arrangement  as  a  post-settle- 
ment should  one's  material  prosperity  be  enhanced 
by  the  aid  of  Annaji's  facile  pen. 

The  other  day  I  received  a  communication  from 
my  old  barber.  This  was  the  letter: 

RESPECTED  SIR — I  beg  to  undersigned  Johan  Barber, 
Sir.  I  have  been  served  above  steamer  five  years  between 
in  this  five  years  3  Time  I  was  went  to  my  native  coun- 
try by  keeping  subsitude  of  to  perform  my  shaving  work. 
Last  time  in  month  of  June  when  I  was  arrived  by  steamer 
in  Bombay  then  I  was  receive  a  Letter  from  my  native 
place  that  for  my  daughter  married  every  thing  is  settle 
made  come  soon.  So  Sir  on  my  work  I  was  kept  a  sub- 
situde Barber  Gawoosi  Mahomed  by  the  promised  when 
I  will  be  return  then  you  kindly  give  back  my  work  and 
sir  I  went  away  to  my  native.  Now  I  am  arrived  here 
on  the  .  .  .  and  the  steamer  is  arrived  and  I  am  asking 
the  same  fellow  to  whom  I  was  put  in  my  place  for  the 
subsitude  of  shaving  work.  Sir.  He  is  refusing  not  giv- 
ing me  back  my  work  Speaking  proudly  Sir  I  am  a  poor 
man  Where  I  may  go  and  speak  all  of  my  complain  Sir 
Thinking  1st  god  and  afterwards  you  Sir  I  was  kind- 
ness giving  him  my  work  for  as  a  subsitude  only  to  per- 
form for  one  trip  Now  he  is  doing  forcely  to  take  my 
bread  sir  In  this  five  years  how  I  was  passed  my  days 
your  honour  knows  about  my  conduct  and  sir  I  am  not 
keeping  any  other  hope  except  you  my  officer  will  be 
justify.  Sir  my  children  thinking  me  parent  and  sir  I 
thinking  you  my  parent  and  in  my  daughter  married  I 
got  debt  for  other  people  about  Three  Hundred  Rs  and 
in  this  hope  I  am  arrived  from  the  country  in  time  of 
ship  arrived  when  I  was  went  and  asked  that  for  to  give 


THE  SCRIBE  55 

back  my  work  he  given  me  such  a  hard  replyin  proudly 
from  that  I  am  quite  could  not  said  a  word  and  at  pres- 
ent I  am  in  such  hard  circumstances  that  for  god  knows 
...  By  the  act  of  Benivolance. 

A  clear  appeal — a  hard  case  indeed!  By  the 
aid  of  Annaji's  broad  J.  one  is  made  'forcely'  to 
see  the  poor  ill-used  old  servitor  driven  from  his 
work  by  the  machinations  of  the  cunning  'subsi- 
tude.'  A  hard  case!  But  it  has  no  foundation 
in  fact.  Last  voyage  Johan  went  to  his  country. 
There  was  no  talk  of  'subsitudes'  or  of  his  com- 
ing back.  He  bade  me  a  courteous  farewell,  and 
accepted  a  small  douceur  and  a  reference  chili. 
'In  such  hard  circumstances  that  for  god  knows.' 
I  see  no  sign  of  such  hard  circumstances.  Johan's 
cap  is  gold  embroidered,  and  must  have  cost 
Rupees  fifteen;  his  razor  box  is  studded  with  cun- 
ning brasswork;  his  upturned  shoes  are  new  and 
costly,  and  his  attire  in  general  is  not  consistent 
with  a  declaration  of  extreme  poverty. 

Nevertheless,  I  have  put  Gawoosi  Mahomed 
away,  and  Johan  Shaban  comes  to  me  in  the  morn- 
ings 'on  the  business  of  shaving  work.'  But 
Annaji's  letter  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  change. 
Gawoosi  ate  GARLIC  ! 

I  have  reason  to  think  that  Annaji  has  received 
a  present  for  what  is  thought  to  be  his  share  in  the 
matter.  Now,  when  I  go  to  the  Post  Office  to  see 
that  my  letters  are  properly  date-marked,  he 
salaams  courteously  and  addresses  me  as  Huzoor, 


VI 
STOCKHOLM  TAR 

'T^HEY  were  repairing  rigging  on  a  Russian 
barque,  and  the  clean  wholesome  odour  of 
Stockholm  tar  was  borne  on  the  wind  to  us,  as 
we  lay,  smothered  in  choking  dust,  'coaling'  against 
time,  that  we  might  sail  with  the  evening's  tide. 
On  our  vessel,  a  gaunt  naked  collier,  everything 
was  in  disorder:  decks  littered  with  cargo,  gear, 
and  stores,  and  thick  with  the  dust  from  the  coal- 
tips;  every  one  in  a  hurry,  bustling  to  and  fro, 
seeing  to  this  or  that  before  dark  fell.  Grimy 
figures  about  the  coal-tips  and  the  hatchways  sway- 
ing long  poles  and  shouting  hoarse  cries,  "From 
under  there,  from  under!"  Then  the  coal, 
rumbling  and  rattling  down  the  iron  shutes  and 
raising,  skyward,  a  cloud  of  blinding  dust.  A 
clatter  of  chain  runners  as  the  empty  waggons  are 
run  off,  and  again  the  hoarse  cry,  "From  under 
there,  from  under!"  A  busy  scene  of  haste  and 
hurry,  a  marked  contrast  to  quiet  routine  aboard 
of  the  Russian. 

She  was  an  old  vessel,  probably  a  'crack' 
American  packet  in  her  day,  for  her  stern,  rounded 
in  seemly  curves,  was  just  what  those  master  ship- 

56 


STOCKHOLM  TAR  57 

wrights  of  Bath  and  Delaware  would  put  afloat  in 
the  'sixties.  Built  masts,  heavy  lower  yards,  and 
a  good  spread  of  rigging,  all  told  of  a  worthy 
vessel;  but  the  pump-windmill  turning  lazily  in 
the  fitful  breeze,  and  the  thin  stream  of  clean 
water  trickling  from  her  scuppers,  showed  that  her 
staunchness  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  that  the 
years  had  brought  her  to  her  last  adventure,  tim- 
ber droghing  in  the  North  Atlantic.  Her  crew 
of  blue-eyed  Finns  were  discharging  the  cargo, 
heaving  logs  out  of  the  massive  bow  ports  and 
turning  them  on  a  rough  stage,  from  whence  they 
were  dragged  ashore  by  stout  horses,  to  cries  of 
encouragement  and  cracking  of  whips. 

Others  of  her  crew  were  in  the  topmast  rigging, 
working  at  the  shrouds.  Pigmy  figures  they 
looked,  bold  against  the  clear  sky.  They  were 
tarring  the  shrouds,  and  the  sight  and  the  old 
familiar  smell  brought  back  memories  of  days 
when  I  'signed'  for  the  'Horn'  under  canvas,  be- 
fore 'knocking-off  the  sea,  to  go  in  steamboats'; 
memories  of  hot  days  in  the  Tropics,  when  the 
south-east  'Trades'  filled  the  sails,  and  we  were 
at  it,  hard  at  it,  'tarring  "down.'  The  light  steady 
breeze  keeping  the  sails  ataut,  clambering  figures 
on  the  spidery  rigging,  a  hot  sun,  and  the  smell 
of  tar — clean,  wholesome  Stockholm  tar,  beloved 
of  sailormen,  their  remedy  for  all  ills.  How 
gingerly,  at  first,  we  would  touch  the  sticky  mess; 
a  wa'd,  perhaps,  or  an  old  mitt,  and  a  little  care, 


58  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

and — but  then  a  shout  from  the  keen-eye'd  bosun 
and  a  hail  from  the  deck  far  below  would  tell  that 
our  'niceness'  was  observed,  and  was  being  held 
forth  to  'all  han'ds'  in  stentorian  shouts.  "Now, 
then,  main  t'galn  yard,  there !  Coin'  t'  be  awl  day 
at  them  foot-ropes?  Ho!  It's  'is  'ands,  is  it? 
All  right,  men,  git  on  wit'  yer  work.  Never  mind 
th'  young  gen'elman  as  wants  t'  keep  'is  'ands  clean 
fer  playin'  th'  pianny.  Ho,  yus!  It's  'is  'ans,  it 
is !  Where's  'is  walet  as'll  take  him  'im  hup  a  clean 
towel  an'  a  cake  o'  scentid  soap  for  'is  nice,  delikit 
'ans?"  After  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
throw  caution  to  the  winds,  and  dip  into  the  pot, 
over  the  wrists,  all  the  time  keeping  an  eye  on  the 
fore  to  see  that  your  mate  didn't  get  off  his  yard 
before  you.  When  the  pot  was  empty,  'down  to 
the  deck  again  for  a  fresh  supply,  a  few  minutes 
for  a  'drink,  and,  perhaps,  if  you  had  done  well,  a 
puff  or  two  at  a  pipe,  and  then,  "Up  wit'  ye,  me 
son!  Weather  tawps'l  yardarm,  an'  mind  them 
Flemish  'orses!" 

And  so  the  sun,  passing  high  o'er  our  heads  and 
working  down  to  the  western  horizon,  would  see  us. 
still  at  it  when  the  fleecy  'trade'  clouds  gathered 
about  his  setting.  Daybreak  to  sunset  was  a  long 
'day,  but  it  was  finished,  this  'tarring  down,'  finished 
for  the  voyage,  when  the  last  man  came  down  from 
aloft  and  we  gathered  about  the  galley-door  to 
clean  ourselves  .and  prepare  for  a  scant  supper. 
And  then,  when  the  rising  moon  would  touch  our 


STOCKHOLM  TAR  59 

work,  lining  the  yards  and  rigging  with  a  silver 
thread,  we  would  put  our  tarry  clothes  in  the  now 
empty  tar-barrel  and  set  it  alight  and  afloat,  and 
watch  it  flaming  and  spluttering  'way  astern  till 
eight  bells  were  struck  and  the  watch  would  go 
below. 

That  was  in  other  days,  but  now  we  were  in  a 
grimy  collier,  working  against  time  to  sail  with  the 
evening's  tide.  Dark  falls  and  brings  with  it  a 
'smirring'  of  thin  rain,  a  bounty  to  'lay'  the  chok- 
ing dust.  We  have  but  two  hours  to  finish,  and 
the  siding  still  shows  a  long  line  of  waiting 
waggons.  Huge  flares  at  the  coal-tips  give  light  to 
the  workers,  and  the  incessant  cry,  fainter  and 
scarce  articulate  now,  marks  the  tipping  of  a 
waggon,  "Fr'under,  there — under!"  At  last,  with 
a  pile  of  coal  at  each  hatchway,  piles  that  will 
take  an  hour's  hard  'trimming,'  we  haul  out  from 
under  the  tips  and  warp  across  the  dock. 
Electric  arcs  shine  out  at  the  pierhead,  and  the 
lights  of  the  low  town  across  the  river  shine  and 
twinkle  as  lights  do  on  wet  nights.  The  muddy 
flood  bears  in  from  the  sea,  surging  past  the  pier- 
heads and  seeking  under  the  grimy  wharves.  The 
dock  gates  are  not  yet  open  but  moving  oilskin- 
clad  figures  on  the  dockside  and  the  rattle  of 
chains  thrown  down  or  levers  shipped  in  readiness 
— all  tell  of  an  early  start.  We  are  waiting  near 
where  the  Russian  barque  lies.  Her  tall  masts 
and  spars  tower  in  the  'darkness  above  us.  There 


60  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

is  a  glimmer  of  light  through  an  open  cloor,  anH 
forward  one  plays  a  fiddle — a  quick,  uncanny  tune 
that  Finns  play  on  'dark  nights.  She  lies  quiet  at 
her  moorings,  this  old  timber  'drogher.'  With  her 
is  no  crazy  night-work,  no  unseemly  haste,  no  put- 
ting to  sea  in  a  state  of  reckless  insecurity,  with 
hatches  open  and  derricks  aloft.  When  God's 
good  daylight  wanes  her  sailormen  cease  work, 
and  the  old  barque,  unmindful  of  screaming 
whistles,  clattering  winches,  and  hoarse  shouts 
from  the  dockhead,  lies  quietly  at  her  moorings, 
and  about  her  is  a  clean,  wholesome  odour,  an 
odour  of  rough-hewn  logs  and  Stockholm  tar. 


VII 


TJADJI  MAHOMMED  CASSUM— whose 
A  A  other  name,  as  shown  by  his  trade  card,  is 
Messrs.  Cheap  Jack  and  Company,  general  orders 
supplier, — came  on  board  on  Sunday  morning  to 
see  what  business  could  be  done.  With  him  came 
a  small  coolie  boy,  staggering  under  the  weight 
of  a  large  flat  basket.  The  basket  contained  the 
Hadji's  stock  of  '  'tassa  silks,  Madrassi  cloth,  em- 
broider' tea-cloth,  mantle  harder,  cus'in  cover, 
Benares  brass  an'  ruppees  silverwork,  Sahib!' — the 
usual  stock  of  a  Muslim  box-wallah  who  does  busi- 
ness with  confiding  sailor  folk. 

On  Sunday  was  his  only  chance.  On  working 
days  the  thunderous  clank  and  rattle  of  throbbing 
winches  and  the  cries  of  men  at  the  hatches  in- 
terfere with  the  due  extolling  of  each  and  all  o£ 
his  wares.  This  the  Hadji  knew.  He  knew,  too, 
that  the  time  and  leisure  necessary  for  the  proper 
conduct  of  barter  was  not  to  be  thought  of  on 
working  days — unless,  maybe,  in  the  case  of  the 
'Daktar  Sahib!'  So,  on  Sunday  morning,  after 
waiting  considerately  till  we  had  selected  a  cool 

61 


62  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

spot  and  a  long  chair,  the  Hadji  advanced  to  the 
attack  with  a  profusion  of  two-handed  salaams. 

He  would  be  a  man  of  mark  in  Islam — the 
Hadji.  His  red-dyed  beard  and  green  turban 
showed  me  that  he  had  performed  the  Haj — the 
pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  Those  thick  lips  that  uttered 
so  many  courteous  greetings  and  compliments  on 
my  apparent  well-being  had  kissed  the  Keblah! 
So,  I  thought,  I  shall  acquire  merit  in  being  cheated 
by  such  a  holy  man !  But,  in  good  time !  In  good 
time!  There  is  my  budget  of  news  to  be  attended 
to! 

"Salaam,  Sahib/'  he  repeated,  after  a  due  in- 
terval had  passed. 

"Get  out!"  I  said  snappishly.  "Get  out! 
Jaof"  A  man  does  not  like  to  have  his  reading 
of  a  fortnight-old  Lorgnette  interfered  with  on  the 
cool  of  a  quiet  Sunday  morning. 

The  Hadji  squatted  on  his  haunches  on  deck. 
The  small  boy  put  down  the  basket  with  a  sigh  of 
content,  and  promptly  went  to  sleep. 

"Sahib!  I  got  it  good  tings,  dis  time!  You 
like  de  look?" 

"Jao,  Sooarf    Jao/f" 

The  Hadji  stroked  his  red-dyed  beard.  Tig,' 
indeed!  Was  this  the  way  to  treat  a  holy  man, 
lately  returned  from  perilous  adventure.  There 
would  be  an  extra  eight  annas  or  a  rupee  to  pay  for 
that  'Sooar,'  I  felt! 


THE   'REAL'   CASHMIRI   SHAWL      63 

"Sahib!  You  look  see!  No  cost  for  lookin', 
Sir!"  The  Hadji  untied  a  bundle  and  exposed  a 
pile  of  gilt-embroidered  tea-cloths.  I  had  a  mind 
to  call  the  quartermaster  and  have  the  holy  one 
summarily  removed.  But  then,  I  thought — Sun- 
day !  He,  too,  would  have  his  papers  on  mail  day, 
and  would  now  probably  be  deeply  immersed  in 
the  advertisement  pages  of  the  Oban  Times. 

The  Hadji  held  a  long  mantle  border  outspread 
on  two  arms.  "Sewen  rupees,  Sahib,"  he  said 
simply;  but  his  eyes  told  me  that  it  was  rare  value, 
that — only  to  me — could  he  consent  to  part  with 
it  at  that  ridiculous  price. 

I  showed  a  proper  contempt;  the  mantle  border 
was  put  aside.  Then  another,  and  on,  till  the 
bundle  was  exhausted.  Gilt  embroidery  was  clearly 
not  a  selling  line  and  the  Hadji  turned  to  his 
brasswork — arranging  the  plates,  vases,  and  un- 
nameable  ornaments  in  serried  ranks.  Each  was 
handled  with  a  due  reverence — imaginary  specks 
of  dust  were  carefully  blown  from  the  carved 
work.  A  sight  to  gladden  the  soul  of  Brum- 
magem ! 

All  to  no  purpose:  I  hold  by  the  engineer's 
view  of  brasswork! 

At  the  opening  of  the  fourth  bundle  I  ma'de 
some  demur.  "Don't  want  anything,"  I  said,  pick- 
ing up  my  paper  and  trying  to  resume  reading. 
It  was  hopeless !  Even  Lorgnette  had  lost  interest, 


64  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE ' 

for,  all  the  time  as  I  rea'd,  I  knew  the  Hadji's 
eyes  were  on  me,  that  he  was  patiently  waiting  for 
me  to  turn  my  attention  to  business. 

A  'dress  length  of  'tassa'  (Tussore)  silk  was 
spread  out  ready  for  my  inspection;  he  rustled  it 
between  his  hands.  "Chirrp  like  canary,  'Sahib" 
he  said. 

"Chirrp  like  Ha'des!"  said  I,  "take  it  away!" 

"Cheap,  Sahib!    Only  twenty-two  rupee!" 

"Twen-ty-two  rupee!"  I  echoed.  "You  must 
think  you've  got  a  'greenhorn'  !" 

"Arre  nay,  Sahib!"  The  Hadji  became  as  'dust 
to  my  feet.  "Arre  nay!  I  saavy  you  blenty  time 
comin'  Bombay!  If  I  tink  you  new  gentlee-man 
sahib,  I  askin'  twenty-fife  rupee!" 

Here  was  a  fine  turn  of  Oriental  sophistry! 
Deliberately  he  shows  himself  a  rogue  that  I 
might  esteem  myself  smart  in  driving  a  bargain! 
The  Hadji  had  learned  more  than  his  prayers — 
over  there  at  Mecca!  I  picked  up  a  shawl  and 
'examined  it  carelessly.  "Reel  Cashmiri,  Sahib," 
said  the  Hadji,  admiring  the  texture  between  his 
'finger  and  thumb.  "Make  in  'de  Cashmir,  Sahib! 
— dese  Hindu  fella!" 

"Manchester  ke  saman  hai,"  I  said,  throwing  it 
clown  with  an  'exaggerated  gesture  of  contempt. 
The  Hadji,  with  a  stern  frown,  lifted  it,  folded  it 
carefully,  and  stowed  it  away  in  his  bundle.  At 
'first  silent,  his  indignation  got  the  upper  hand. 
"Arre,  Sahib"  he  said.  "You  no  saavy  dat  Cash- 


THE    'REAL'    CASHMIRI  SHAWL      65 

mir,  for  speakin'  like  Hat!  How  can  makin'  in 
Manchester  like  'dat?"  He  drew  a  large  ring 
from  his  finger,  entered  the  end  of  the  shawl 
(slipped  from  the  bundles  in  some  mysterious 
way),  and  pulled  it  swiftly  through. 

Still  I  was  scornful. 

Then  his  face  brightened,  and  he  came  at  me 
on  a  new  tack.  He  turned  to  the  sleeping  boy — 
"De  Sahib  makin'  jokin',  no?  He  makin'  de  fun! 
Laugh  —  he  make  laughin'  1"  The  boy  slept 
solidly  on;  he  was  making  a  purring  noise  with  his 
nose. 

"Oh!  Bhun  karao,"  I  said  testily.  'Tack  up 
and  get  out!  7aof  Don't  want  any  of  your 
jammed  trash.  'JaoJ" 

The  Hadji  stared  at  me  anxiously.  This!  when 
business  was  going  on  so  nicely,  quite  up  to  the 
standard  of  a  bazaar  transaction! 

I  picked  up  my  paper  again,  lit  a  fresh  cheroot 
— tried  dropping  the  ash  on  his  goods.  No  use! 
The  Hadji  flicke'd  the  ash  off  and  courteously 
removed  the  goods  out  of  my  way. 

"If  dis  no  real  Cashmiri — you  look,  Sahib!" 
He  tore  a  thread  from  the  edge  of  the  shawl,  lit 
one  of  my  matches  and  applied  it;  the  thread 
frizzle'd  and  emitte'd  a  pungent  odour.  I  had  an 
idea  that  wool  would  give  the  same,  but  was  too 
lazy  to  experiment.  The  Hadji  would  know  that. 

"Sahib!" — confidentially,  looking  round  to  see 
that  no  one  was  there  to  note  his  weakness — "I  sell 


66  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

you  for  cheap!  I  give  you  for  ten  rupee!  I 
wantin'  de  money  for  luck;  not  sold  one  pice,  dis 
morning.  Ten  rupee?" 

"Ten  rupee!    Ten  rupee!!    Go  to,"  I  said. 

"How  much  give,  Sahib?  What  price  you 
t'ink?" 

I  said  I  wouldn't  take  it  as  a  gift. 

He  bundled  it  carelessly  and  placed  it  beside  my 
chair.  "What  you  like,  Sahib,"  he  said  with  a  fine, 
air  of  resignation! 

"Wouldn't  give  you  ten  annas!  Take  it  away! 
No  use  to  me,"  I  said. 

"Present  for  lady!  De  Memsahlb  likin'  dat 
real  Cashmiri  shawl!"  He  arranged  it,  full  length, 
on  top  of  the  basket  and  sleeping  boy. 

I  looked  to  be  deep  in  my  paper — made  no  an- 
swer. For  a  time  the  conversation  was  left  to  two 
perky  crows,  quarrelling  over  a  dead  rat  or  some- 
thing, but  soon  the  Hadji  returned  to  the  attack. 
He  was  a  famous  stayer — Hadji  Mahommed  Cas- 
sum,  whose  other  name  was  Messrs.  Cheap  Jack 
and  Company,  General  Orders  supplier! 

"S'pose  you  gettin'  too  cheap,  Sahib,  how  much 
you  give?" 

"Hangnation !  Don't  —  want  —  it  —  at  —  all ! 
Wouldn't  buy  it  at  any  price!" 

"Arre,  no,  Sahib.  No!  No!  No  buyin'  "— 
The  Hadji  held  out  both  hands  and  deliberately 
and  tangibly  pushed  the  suggestion  to  one  side, 
half  rose  from  his  squatting  to  do  it,  A  mar- 


THE   'REAL'   CASHMIRI    SHAWL      67 

vellous  gesture!  I  distinctly  saw  the  suggestion 
of  buying  vanish  in  the  direction  of  the  engineers' 
quarters ! 

"Nay,  nay!  No  buy!  S'pose  you  goin'  in  de 
bazaar  an'  you  see  dat  real  Cashmiri  shawl.  .  .  . 
How  much  you  t'ink  for  very  cheap?"  A  purely 
hypothetical  question,  I  thought.  The  Hadji  had 
a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes.  He  was  indeed  inter- 
ested in  a  circling  bramleykite  who  had  settled  the 
crows'  argument  by  taking  the  rat  in  his  claws  and 
flying  off. 

Off-hand.    "Oh!  two  'dibs,'  "  I  said. 

Instantly  the  far-away  look  vanished  from  his 
;eyes.  Before  the  few  words  were  quite  said,  the 
Hadji  had  the  shawl  parcelled,  laid  on  my  chair, 
was  busily  packing  his  bundles — preparing  to 
'depart ! 

"But  I  don't  want  it,"  I  said.  "That  was  purely 
a  suppositious  case!  I  don't  want  it  at  all;  even 
at  two  rupees!" 

The  Hadji  looked  at  me  reproachfully. 

"Arre,  Sahib!  I  no  saavy  dat  talkin'.  You  say 
two  'dib' !  You'  word!  You'  gent-lee-man  word! 
I  lose  on  dat,  but  I  give  you  for  two  rupee!  I 
wantin'  you'  money!  You  very  lucky  gent-lee- 
man,  I  see" — tapping  his  forehead — "you  bring 
me  luck.  I  sell  blenty  t'ings  now!" 

"But,  hang  it  all,  it  was  only  a  question !" 

"Arre,  nay,  Sahib!  You  give  you'  word!  Two 
rupee,  you  say!  Gent-lee-man  word!" 


68  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

"T*  h' — pot  with  you  an'd  your  gentleeman 
word,  ye  jammed  old  fraud!" 

The  quartermaster  had  come  over,  ami  was 
waiting  for  orders. 

The  Hadji  cast  an  entreating  glance  at  me.  In 
great  mental  distress  he  packed  his  bundles  and 
prodded  the  purring  boy.  By  despairing  mein  and 
mute  gesture,  he  intimated  that  his  faith  was  gone 
— that  honour  was  a  sham — that  this  perfidious 
world  is  no  place  for  a  simple-hearted  Hadji ! 

"No  gent-lee-man  word,"  he  sobbed,  as  he  went 
away  I 

That  was  three  clays  ago. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  he  slipped  aboard  to  see 
if  I  had  come  by  my  honour  again,  and  sat,  in  full 
view,  outside  my  room  door,  for  a  matter  of  an 
hour.  Since  then  I  have  'gone  to  live  with  him'  (as 
the  Arabs  say).  As  I  pass  about  my  duties,  I  am 
conscious  of  his  close  regard.  His  entreating  eyes 
are  turned  on  me  from  under  the  arches  of  a  dock 
crane.  There  he  squats  all  day.  Beside  him,  the 
purring,  sleeping  boy  purrs  and  sleeps  over  the 
large  flat  basket,  and,  from  any  distance  I  can  dis- 
tinguish the  'real'  Cashmiri  shawl,  as  it  lies,  placed 
handily  on  top  of  the  brasswork  bundle.  I  see  the 
Hadji  when  I  am  at  mess,  peering  into  the  cabin, 
over  the  shoulder  of  the  punkah  boy.  He  is 
'doubtless  anxious  to  know  if  I  can  take  my  food. 
J  can  only  see  his  head  and  shoulders  from  my 
seat,  but  I  feel  sure  that  the  'real'  Cashmiri  shawl 


THE   'REAL'   CASHMIRI   SHAWL      69 

hangs  in  graceful  folds  over  his  arm.  Last  night 
I  dreamt  of  a  red-bearded  Hadji,  of  'real'  Cash- 
miri  shawls,  of  a  small  coolie  boy,  who  purred 
t(that  would  be  my  fan)  in  his  sleep. 

It  is  becoming  intolerable ! 

Something  will  have  to  be  done ! 

There  are  two  courses  of  action  open  to  me. 
One  is — to  kick  the  Hadji,  together  with  his  'tassa' 
silks,  em-broider'  'tea-cloth,  mantle  harder,  cus'in 
cover,'  etc.,  his  small  coolie  boy,  and  his  large  flat 
basket,  into  the  middle  of  the  Dock  Roadway! 

That  would  be  expensive,  for  the  Parsee  magis- 
trate, who  has  the  keeping  of  the  King's  peace  in 
these  parts,  is  particularly  severe  on  the  employ- 
ment of  physical  force.  I  would  be  fined  ten  or 
fifteen  rupees,  and  there  would  have  to  be  a 
further  payment  of  'rupees — five — to  complain- 
ant, as  compensation.' 

The  other  way  is  more  pacific;  it  is  the  course  I 
shall  most  probably  adopt. 

I  shall  pay  the  Hadji  his  two  rupees  and  restore 
his  wavered  faith  in  the  stability  of  the  Raj — in 
the  sacredness  of  a  'gent-lee-man  word !' 

Besides,  I  know  of  a  small  person  at  home  who 
would  be  quite  glad  of  a  'real'  Cashmiri  shawl  to 
hap  round  her  dollies — these  cold  nights ! 


VIII 
DROPPING  THE  PILOT 

WHEN  a  north  gale  blows  over  the  estuary 
of  the  Mersey  and  raises  a  tumbling  sea 
across  the  tide  the  outward  pilots  have  to  travel 
far  before  they  can  be  put  ashore.  In  ordinary 
weather  they  are  taken  off  the  outward-bound 
steamers  by  a  pilot-boat  stationed  outside  the 
channel,  but  in  a  northerly  gale  the  sea  runs  over- 
high  for  boat  service,  and  the  pilot  steamer  has 
enough  to  do  to  keep  her  station  and  to  direct  the 
inward-bound  vessels.  Down  the  coast  there  is 
no  shelter  to  be  had,  for  North  Wales  is  open  to 
the  wind,  and  the  long  rollers,  crashing  into  shoal 
water,  set  up  such  a  sea  that  even  the  most  ven- 
turesome would  hardly  care  to  put  off  in  it.  Holy- 
head  harbour  is  white-lashed  by  the  whip  of  the 
wind,  and  the  tide  race  round  the  South  Stack 
makes  Penrhos  Bay  an  awkward  landing;  from 
Formby  to  the  Stack  there  is  no  bulwark  to  the 
north  wind,  and  so,  the  gale  continuing,  the  pilots 
are  carried  down  channel  arid  are  put  ashore  at 
that  port  of  shelter  that  requires  the  least  diver- 
gence from  the  progress  of  a  voyage.  For  south 
and  west  bound  vessels  Dunmore  Bay,  on  the 

70 


DROPPING  THE  PILOT  71 

south-east  coast  of  Ireland,  is  most  favoured.  It 
is  no  great  distance  from  the  track  to  Finisterre, 
and  the  local  pilots  and  fishermen  are  ever  on  the 
lookout  for  the  good  north  wind  that  blows  a 
badly-needed  sovereign  to  their  pockets  with  every 
Mersey  pilot  that  they  put  on  the  beach.  When 
the  wind  comes  strong  over  Killea  on  the  Hill,  the 
sea  folk  of  Dunmore  are  early  astir,  counting  the 
tides  and  watching  for  the  distant  smoke,  south 
away,  that  tells  of  a  steamer  rounding  the  Coning- 
beg  lightship. 

On  a  blustering  day  we  go  to  sea  from  the 
Mersey.  The  north  cone  is  dangling  from  the 
signal  staff  at  New  Brighton,  and  our  Pilot,  seeing 
it,  feels  in  his  pockets  to  discover  how  funds  stand, 
and  wishes  he  had  brought  more  travelling  com- 
forts than  a  hard  hat  and  an  oilskin  coat.  "I'll 
be  two,  mebbe  three,  days  away,"  says  he  to  the 
Captain.  "The  wind's  strong  north  outside,  and 
none  of  our  boats  will  take  me  off  on  this  side  of 
the  channel.  Ye'll  have  to  carry  me  on,  Captain 
— on  to  Dunmore  or  Milford!"  The  Captain, 
ill-pleased  at  the  prospect  of  a  halt,  however  short, 
in  his  voyage,  hopes  that  there  may  be  a  shift  of 
wind  before  Holyhead  is  reached,  but  the  Pilot, 
glancing  to  the  Formby  shore,  where  everything 
stands  out  distinct  in  the  clear  north  wind,  shakes 
his  head  weatherwise.  A  philosopher  of  sorts, 
like  all  who  own  the  wind  and  tide  for  master,  he 
goes  about  the  setting  of  his  course,  the  ordering 


72  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

of  the  helm,  and  gives  no  further  thought  to  the 
matter;  a  day  or  two  from  home  is  no  great  mat- 
ter, though  a  hard  hat  and  an  oilskin  coat  may  be 
a  rather  meagre  outfit. 

It  is  a  Saturday,  and  we  are  a  goodly  company 
of  south-bound  ships;  all  sorts,  all  sizes,  plunging 
down  the  channel,  unleashed  on  our  errands,  a 
convoy  of  sheering  hulls  lifting  to  the  wind  and 
sea,  with  a  cloud  of  whirling  smoke-wrack  blown 
low  on  the  water.  Out  here  it  is  blowing  a  mod- 
erate gale,  and  the  lightships  are  making  rough 
weather  of  it,  labouring  uneasily  with  the  wind 
athwart  the  tide.  A  large  barque,  towing  in,  is 
flying  signals  for  a  pilot,  but  the  pilot-boat  is  un- 
able to  'board  her'  and  steams  slowly  ahead  with 
a  message  at  the  masthead — 'Steer  after  me  into 
smooth  water.'  In  this  we  read  that  they  can  do 
us  no  service,  so  we  steer  round  the  Bar  Lightship 
and  shape  a  course  for  Holyhead.  On  the  coast 
of  Anglesey  we  meet  the  pilot-boat  of  the  outer 
station.  She  is  weathering  out  the  gale  in  the 
open,  and  answers  our  signals  with  a  curt  U.V. — 
'Too  much  sea!'  That  settles  it,  and,  his  term  of 
office  at  an  end,  the  Pilot  goes  below,  assured  that 
it  will  be  on  Ireland  he  will  set  foot. 

Through  the  night  we  run  'down  by  the  Irish 
banks,  and  daybreak  finds  us  rounding  the  Tuskar 
Light,  bearing  up  for  Dunmore  Bay.  The  wind 
has  lessened,  and  is  veering  uncertainly.  The  sky 
shows  p/omise  of  westerly  winds,  and  a  long,  evert 


DROPPING  THE  PILOT  73 

swell  is  setting  into  the  bay;  we  must  make  haste 
to  land  our  man  and  get  well  away  on  our  passage 
across  the  Bay  of  Biscay  before  a  sou'west  wind 
rouses  the  sea  against  us.  We  are  early  on  the 
tide,  and  the  old  Hook  Tower  is  close  to  before  a 
boat  puts  off.  An  ancient-cutter  she  is,  yawing 
wildly  down  the  wind  and  bruising  the  water  be- 
fore her  in  the  fashion  of  a  stout  old-timer.  Near 
by  she  lies  to  and  puts  a  small  dinghy  in  the  water; 
three  men  pull  towards  us.  The  Mersey  Pilot  is 
ready  for  the  road  and  there  looks  to  be  little  to 
detain  us,  but  the  boatmen  have  their  little  axe  to 
grind,  and  one  boards  us  to  see  what  can  be  done. 
He  goes  on  the  bridge  with  cap  in  hand. 

"Marnin',  Captin',"  says  he.  "It's  early  ye  are 
from  Liverpool.  Sure,  ye  must  hev  a  foine  ship 
an'  a  fast,  bedad!"  He  looks  about,  admiring. 
After  such  a  compliment  the  Captain  can  do  no 
less  than  offer  him  some  creature  comfort.  "That's 
th'  stuff  now,"  smacking  his  lips;  "devil  a  better! 
Captin' !  Yez  haven't  a  few  faddoms  ov  two-inch 
t'  make  a  pake  halliards  for  th'  ould  boat.  Sure 
it's  ould  worn-out  junk  they  are  wid  sarvin'  thim 
Liverpool  pilots?"  Two-inch  is  an  out-size  on  a 
modern  steamer,  and  none  is  forthcoming.  "Well, 
thin.  Could  yez  giv' us  a  lick  o' paint,  now?  Jest 
a  lick,  d'ye  moind,  an'  a  brush  an'  a  pat.  Sure,  it's 
ages  since  she  had  a  touch  av  it,  an'  her  ould  sames 
gapin'  an'  all!"  In  this  he  is  more  successful,  and 
some  paint  is  put  into  the  boat.  His  further 


74  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

requests  meet  with  some  return,  and  at  last,  reluc- 
tantly, he  goes  aboard  his  boat,  saying  something 
about  "an  empty  barrel  av'  potatoes!" 

The  old  cutter  wears  round  and  goes  off  to  meet 
the  following  steamers,  now  bearing  in,  and  with  a 
decisive  clang  of  the  engine-room  telegraph,  and 
an  answering  tremor  of  the  engines,  we  lay  off  a 
course  and  proceed  on  our  lawful  occasions. 


IX 
OLD  PAOLI 

/~\LD  Paoli,  the  cobbler,  is  as  much  a  part  of 
^-^  the  Qtiai  de  Lazaret  as  the  mooring  posts 
and  the  hydraulic  cranes  and  the  little  hut  where 
the  Maitres  de  Port  sit  and  talk  politics  and  high 
finance.  No  sooner  have  we  passed  the  swing- 
bridge  inward  bound,  and  the  little  dock  tugs  are 
smoking  up  furiously  to  swing  us  round,  than  we 
see  old  Paoli  sitting  on  his  work-box  at  the  breast 
of  the  Quai — at  the  exact  spot  where  presently  our 
gangway  will  be  pushed  ashore. 

He  will  be  one  of  the  first  on  board — after  the 
Port  Doctor  has  satisfied  himself  that  we  are  iri 
good  health  and  has  ordered  the  yellow  flag  to  be 
hauled  down.  One  of  the  first;  Paoli  is  growing 
old  and  is  not  now  so  well  able  to  jostle  with  the 
crowd  of  hotel  touts  and  baggage  agents  and  post- 
card vendors  as  once  he  was. 

The  old  fellow  is  always  courteous,  in  his 
broken-English,  ship-slang  sort  of  way.  He  would 
never  dream  of  commencing  business  until  he  has 
assured  himself,  by  polite  enquiry,  that  all  his  po- 
tential patrons  are  in  a  good  state  of  health  and 

75 


76  'BROKEN  STOWAGE ' 

have  had  a  passable  voyage.  He  will  come  along 
the  starboard  alleyway,  hat  in  hand,  saying :  "How 
you  wass,  Mister?  Goot — no?"  which  is  his  way 
of  putting  it.  This  concluded,  he  will  seat  himself 
in  plain  view  and  set  out  all  the  implements  of  his 
trade  around  him.  Paoli  is  an  old  campaigner.  If 
it  is  winter  and  the  mistral  blowing,  he  will  seek  a 
warm  corner  out  of  the  wind  where  the  pipes  that 
lead  steam  to  the  winches  pass:  in  summer,  he 
looks  for  a  cool  place  under  the  shade  of  the  deck- 
houses. A  cut  piece  of  finely-tanned  leather  will 
be  hung  up  in  a  prominent  place,  so  that  all  who 
favour  him  with  their  repairs  can  be  in  no  doubt 
as  to  the  quality  of  his  materials. 

As  I  say,  he  will  seat  himself  in  plain  view.  It 
is  not  Paoli's  way  to  pester  one  with  requests  for 
work;  not  unless  his  subtler  mode  of  canvassing 
fails:  this  happens  sometimes  when  the  shipfolk 
are  exceeding  busy.  Being  comfortably  seated,  he 
will  don  an  extra  large  pair  of  spectacles — vener- 
able old  Paoli — and,  as  each  of  us  passes  to  and 
fro  on  our  affairs,  he  will  bend  forward  and  ex- 
amine our  footwear  with  the  very  closest  attention. 
At  the  least  sign  of  an  irregularity — at  ;even  the 
'toes  in'  tread  that  shows  a  listed  heel — he  will 
bend  still  further  forward  until  his  work-box  seat 
is  perilously  tilted.  If  one  is  too  busy  to  heed, 
there  is  nothing  said:  "Shoes  mend  it,  Mister — 
no?"  is  all  he  will  say  should  he  catch  your  eye. 


OLD  PAOLI  77 

It  is  a  terrible  ordeal  to  pass  Paoli  without  looking 
to  where  his  keen  old  eyes  are  so  closely  rivetted ! 

It  is  not  easy  to  get  a  quotation  from  old  Paoli. 
To  all  enquiries  as  to  a  probable  cost,  he  will  re- 
ply: "What  you  laike,  Mister?  I  makem  goot 
job."  He  has  a  scale,  certainly,  but  it  is  largely 
based  on  the  rank  or  rating  on  board  held  by  his 
customer.  When  payment  has  been  tendered,  he 
has  a  way  of  looking  interestedly  at  one's  brass 
binding — at  the  distinctive  badges  that  denote 
authority  on  board  ship. 

Work  comes,  and  the  old  man  polishes  his  big 
spectacles  and  examines  the  job  at  every  possible 
angle.  He  passes  his  hard  old  hands  over  points 
of  separation,  turns  the  soles  up  and  taps  the 
leather  with  a  touch  that  might  be  a  Doctor  sound- 
ing— then  sighs,  as  though  he  finds  the  job  will  be 
a  difficult  one. 

Having  thus  fully  and  fairly  considered  the  job, 
Paoli  next  turns  to  his  famous  piece  of  tanned 
leather.  He  slaps  it  with  the  flat  of  his  hand, 
making  a  great  noise  (to  attract  attention,  maybe) 
— and  slowly  and  carefully  he  cuts  a  piece.  In 
this,  he  sets  his  teeth  hard  and  grunts  furiously,  to 
show  that  his  leather  is  not  so  easily  severed.  Be- 
tween the  slicings  with  his  big  cobbler's  knife,  he 
will  peer  over  the  top  of  his  specs;  he  nods  ap- 
provingly at  the  toughness  of  his  piece. 

It  is  duly  cut  to  a  rough  size  and  placed  aside. 


78  *  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 


Now  comes  the  moment  of  precise  an'd  'disHainful 
removal  of  the  damaged  sole.  Nothing  can  ex- 
ceed the  scornful  emphasis  that  Paoli  applies  to  all 
his  dealings  with  it.  It  is  ripped  contemptuously 
from  the  welt,  is  held  a  moment  to  view  between 
index  finger  and  thumb — the  while  Paoli's  old 
grey  head  goes  nod,  nod,  nodding — and  is  placed 
carefully  where  it  cannot  contaminate  the  awls  and 
wax-ends  and  cuttings  of  new  leather  that  lie  at 
the  cobbler's  feet.  This  is  if  one  is  watching  the 
progress  of  the  work.  But,  ah!  Paoli,  Paoli!  If 
no  one  is  about,  the  discarded  sole  goes  into  your 
box;  after  all  there  is  a  cutting  in  it  to  make  up 
some  humble  sole. 

Then  come  the  hammering  and  softening  of 
the  hard  new  piece,  and  Paoli  rises  to  straighten 
his  back  before  commencing  the  long  sewing  job. 
He  will  roll  himself  a  cigarette  and  look  about  for 
a  light.  I  know  positively  that  there  is  a  paper  of 
sulphur  matches  in  his  starboard  waistcoat  pocket, 
but  apparently  these  constitute  his  reserve.  He 
comes  forward,  fingering  the  brim  of  his  battered 
felt  hat.  "You  give-a  de  light,  pleas',  mister."  I 
know  what  is  coming;  it  has  happened  quarterly 
for  many  years  now ! 

"Dese  goot-a  matches,  mister,"  says  old  Paoli, 
as  he  fingers  my  box.  "No  laik-a  de  Franchai 
matches."  (Paoli  is  'Italia-man,'  as  he  will  tell 
you.)  "Franchai  matches  no  goot!  Franchai 


OLD  PAOLI  79 

tabak  no  goot!  Wouf!"  He  spits  contemptu- 
ously and  holds  his  rough  black  cigarette  out  to 
view.  "Franchai  tabak  no  goot!  India  cigar 
goot!"  smacking  his  lips  relishingly.  Here  is  a 
moment's  pause.  "You  got-a  one  India  cigar  for 
ol'  Paoli,  mister?" 


X 

JEEMS  SAHIB 

/TpHE  last  time  I  ha'd  seen  Jeems  he  had  been 
•••  careering  wildly  all  over  the  lower  end  of 
Kelvinhaugh  Street  in  company  of  a  'crood,'  fitters 
and  'prentices,  and  they  were  passing  out  the  last 
five  minutes  of  the  'meal  'oor'  in  pursuit  of  a  mis- 
shapen mass  of  paper  and  string:  they  called  it  a 
ba'.  With  a  whoop  (I  am  afraid  a  good  deal  of 
strong  words  went  with  the  whoop)  they  chased  it 
over  road  and  sidewalk,  jostled  passers-by  with 
quite  unnecessary  vigour,  and  finally  lifted  the  ba' 
with  an  ill-judged  kick  into  the  coal-waggons  at  the 
siding.  I  noticed  Jeems  because,  even  after  the 
ba'  had  been  put  over  the  wall  and  the  'crood' 
were  making  for  Houston's,  he  did  some  steps  on 
the  sidewalk,  showing  his  mates  a  tricky  turn  of 
'the  gem.' 

I  hardly  knew  him  now.  The  fierce  Indian  sun 
had  browned  and  hardened  the  once  'peekit'  com- 
plexion that  Jeems's  good  mother  had  been  so 
concerned  about.  In  his  dingy  working  overalls 
he  looked  all  of  a  man — in  marked  contrast  to  the 
smug  Bengalis  and  weedy  Eurasians  who,  with 
him,  made  up  the  skilled  complement  of  the 
Googhly  Engineering  Works. 

so 


JEEMS  SAHIB  81 

'A  battere'd  pith  topee  surmounted  his  curly 
head,  his  chest  was  bared  to  the  cooler  airs  of  the 
deck  alleyway,  and  the  grime  and  sweat  of  a  hot 
job  in  our  engine-room  had  seared  his  face  in 
greasy  furrows.  I  noticed  that  none  of  his  assist- 
ants showed  such  signs  of  being  'hard  wrocht.' 

"Hullo,  Jeems,"  I  said.  "I  never  thought  of 
meeting  you  out  here." 

Jeems  winked. 

His  wink  said  plainly,  as  only  a  Clyde  'shop* 
wink  may  say  it,  *  'Cod.  Ye're  therr.' 

"I've  been  oot  here  this  six  months,"  he  told 
me.  "I  cam'  oot  second  o'  a  tramp,  yin  o'  Aik- 
mans,  the  Borstal.  We  hid  a  bit  o'  an  accident 
comin'  up  th'  coast,  an'  I  hid  tae  go  intae  hospital 
wi'  a  bashed  airm  when  we  arrived." 

"Oh,  it's  a'  richt,  noo,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  my 
enquiry.  "Hit's  a'  richt,  but  th'  ship  sail't  afore  I 
got  oot  o'  th'  hospital.  The  agent  wis  tae  hae  sent 
me  hame,  but  I  got  th'  offer  o'  this  joab,  an'  jist 
bidet  here." 

"I  hope  it's  a  good  one,  Jeems,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  it's  no'  that  bad,  man.  The  pey's  guid, 
but — ach! — ye're  awfu'  hard  wrocht.  Oot  here 
it's  different  tae  whit  it  is  at  hame.  If  ye  want  a 
joab  dune — aff  wi'  yer  jaiket  an'  d'it  yersel'.  .  .  . 
That's  th'  wey  oot  here — aff  comes  yer  jaiket  an' 
ye  be  tae  be  dae'n  't  yerself.  .  .  .  An'  me  th' 
gaffer,  tae  ...  Huh!  .  .  .  Them"  (indicating 
his  assistants  with  a  pitying  wave  of  his  hand), 


82  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

"them  'nyaffs.'     Huh!    Thae  yins  couldnae  mak' 
saut  tae  thur  purridge  at  tappin'  five-eicht  holes." 

"But  surely  you've  plenty  of  men  for  the  rough 
work,"  I  said.  "Your  job  will  be  to  supervise, 
isn't  it?" 

"Ou  aye — tae  supervise.  .  .  .  Therr's  plenty 
o'  men  a'  richt.  A'  them  therr,"  he  indicated  a 
group  of  Bengalis  and  up-country  natives  who  were 
hoisting  some  parts  of  machinery  to  the  upper 
platform.  "I  could  hae  yin  tae  cairry  ma  pipe,  an' 
anither  tae  haud  ma  boax  o'  matches;  but,  man, 
they're  awfu'  useless  critters.  It's  no'  like  workin' 
in  a  shoap  \vi'  wiselike  men  that  kens  therr  wark. 
Thaase  yins  is  frae  th'  jungle — at  ten  annas  th' 
day.  It's  a  guid  joab  I've  learnt  therr  langwidge. 
'Cod,  I  don't  know  hoo  we'd  get  oan  if  I  wisnae 
able  tae  tell  them  whit  I  want." 

One  of  the  Eurasians  sidled  up  and  asked  Jeems 
a  question  about  the  lifting  of  the  shop  tools. 

"Af  coorse.    Af  coorse,"  said  Jeems.     "Hey— 
you" — beckoning   to    a    swart   Punjabi — "Hey— 
you.     Awa'  doon  nichee.    Nichee,  savvy?    Awa' 
doon  nichee,  an'  puckerow  that  three  an'  an  eicht 
spanner.    Jilday." 

Jeems  leaned  over  the  handrail  and  watched 
the  man  go  below. 

"Hey — you.  Puckerow  wi'  yer  baith  hauns,  ye 
sooar  ye.  ...  'Cod — "  turning  to  me  again— 
"They'd  tak'  a  fair  len'  o'  us  if  we  didnae  ken  hoo 
tae  speak  thur  langwidge." 


XI 
OFF  ST.  MICHAEL'S  ISLE 

CT.  MICHAEL'S  ISLE,  pearl  of  the  Portu- 
*^  guese  Crown,  stands  bold  among  the  lesser 
Azores  in  mid-Atlantic.  Though  full  in  the  track 
of  ships  making  the  southern  passage,  its  only 
harbour,  at  Ponta  Delgada — a  short  indent  of 
coast  line,  fortified  by  a  colossal  breakwater — has 
not,  in  a  trading  sense,  an  important  position 
among  seaports.  The  island,  fertile  and  fruitful 
as  it  is,  produces  no  commodity  that  calls  for 
tonnage  to  transport;  and  for  most  of  the  year 
the  moorings  lie  empty,  except  for  fruit  vessels  in 
season,  and  the  colliers  who  bring  fuel  from  the 
Welsh  fields  to  be  stacked  and  stored.  On  the 
rim  of  a  far  horizon  ships  pass  on  their  way  to 
East  and  West,  and  at  times  haul  in  sufficiently 
near  to  engage  the  signal  station  with  a  string  of 
flags.  That  is  in  the  fine  weather — in  the  long 
stretch  from  March  to  October;  but  in  the  winter 
months,  when  the  great  west  wind  sets  out  to  fur- 
row the  breadth  of  the  Atlantic,  and  huge  seas 
sweep  unchecked  from  Baltimore  to  the  Bay,  then 
St.  Michael's  becomes  a  harbour  indeed,  a  haven 
of  high  importance,  a  port  that  ships  may  run  to 

83 


84  'BROKEN  STOWAGE1 

'for  fresh  supplies  of  fuel  to  continue  trie;  struggle 
against  wind  and  sea. 

At  Algiers  we  had  coaled  for  the  westward,  but 
after  passing  through  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  we 
met  with  bad  weather,  worsening  daily,  and  so  had 
to  bear  up  for  St.  Michael's  to  replace  the  coal  that 
we  had  expended  in  our  effort  to  make  westing. 
"Pound-notes  going  up  the  funnel,"  said  our 
canny  captain,  as  he  ruefully  measured  the  hard- 
won  inches  on  the  chart.  "There'll  be  a  reckon- 
ing for  this,  I'm  thinking;  for  owners  aye  count 
the  wind  on  the  credit  side  of  their  ledgers!" 
Twelve  'days  from  Gibraltar  we  arrived  off  St. 
Michael's  and  signalled  for  a  pilot,  but  our  flags 
were  answered  by  'urgent  hoists'  from  three  points 
of  eminence:  'Do  not  attempt  to  make  the  har- 
bour!' Steaming  close  inshore  we  saw  reason  for 
the  bolted  door.  The  harbour  was  full,  chock  full, 
of  shipping.  Behind  the  massive  breakwater  there 
was  not  clear  water  enough  to  turn  a  ferry.  There 
was  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  keep  the  sea ;  and  as 
night  fell  we  found  ourselves,  in  company  with 
many  other  vessels  in  similar  strait,  marking  time 
off  the  harbour.  Ail  night  the  glare  of  working 
lights  showed  us  that  they  were  working  'double 
tides'  inside  to  clear  the  port.  Before  daybreak 
a  large  vessel  came  out  and  turned  away  west,  and 
we  felt  sure  of  one  clear  berth  when  day  came. 

Dawn  broke,  grey  and  lurid  at  the  zenith,  on  a 
high  gale  and  heavy  sea.     Eager  for  the  vacant 


OFF  ST.  MICHAEL'S  ISLE  85 

bertH  the  vessels  lay  crowded  at  the  harbour 
mouth;  there  was  no  sign  of  a  pilot  awaiting,  and 
'Do  not  attempt'  still  fluttered  at  the  Port  Cap- 
tain's flag-staff.  On  many  ships  signals  were 
hoisted  showing  stress  of  circumstance:  'Short  of 
coal,'  'Am  unable  to  keep  at  sea,'  'Have  sustained 
serious  damage,'  among  others.  At  last,  when 
nearly  noon,  the  flags  at  the  harbour  staff  were 
lowered,  a  further  order  hoisted — 'Vessel  bearing 
S.S.E.  to  enter!'  In  the  smooth  water  at  the  end 
of  the  breakwater  a  pilot-boat  appeared  showing 
a  flag.  The  compasses  of  the  entire  fleet  of  us 
must  have  experienced  a  remarkable  magnetic 
wave  during  the  night,  for  immediately  the  signal 
was  hoisted  every  captain  considered  his  vessel  to 
bear  south-south-east,  and  a  combined  rush  was 
made  for  the  flag-boat,  at  sight  of  which  the  pilot 
turned  short  round  and  put  back  under  a  lash  of 
oars.  The  rush  continued;  there  were  needy  men 
and  desperate  among  us.  On  every  flagstaff 
ashore  the  now  familiar  'Do  not  attempt'  went 
madly  to  the  peak,  but  the  captains  put  a  Nelson 
eye  to  their  glasses,  each  trying,  by  trick  of  sea- 
manship, to  steam  into  the  best  position.  Whistles 
sounded  out,  indicating  a  confusion  of  steering 
orders;  propellers  churned  and  threshed  in  furious 
foam  as  big  ships  came  violently  astern  to  back 
out  of  the  press.  A  shapely  French  liner  worked 
cleverly  into  the  inshore  berth,  but  before  her 
Captain  could  turn  his  advantage  to  account  a 


86  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

North-country  tramp  backed  close  across  his  bows 
and,  shooting  ahead,  was  soon  inside  the  break- 
water, bellowing  loudly  for  a  pilot.  Then  only 
'did  the  over-eager  captains  recover  sanity,  to  drop 
warily  out  of  the  close  engagement  and,  mopping 
a  heated  brow,  to  wonder  "what  the  devil  the 
other  fellows  meant!"  Then  to  sea  again, — to 
mark  time  until  another  berth  fell  vacant.  Lifting 
uneasily  to  the  long  Atlantic  seas, — to  drive  head- 
long to  the  trough — the  screw  racing  horribly  in 
mid-air  as  her  stern  cast  high,  we  spent  our  day 
in  dire  discomfort.  Hourly  new  arrivals  joined 
us.  Liners  driven  from  their  proper  courses,  col- 
liers with  the  fuel  that  we  so  sorely  needed,  high 
traders  in  crazy  ballasted  trim,  a  Cardiff  tramp 
with  a  dismasted  barque  in  tow.  A  great  gale! 

Through  the  night  the  ships  came  out  of  port, 
their  coal  aboard.  Four — five — six — six  we 
counted,  as,  showing  steaming  lights,  they  rounded 
the  breakwater  and  drove  anew  to  the  westward. 
We  had  to  await  daylight  to  enter — with  such  a 
press  of  shipping  the  pilots  would  take  no  risks. 
At  first  grey  break,  the  movement  began,  the  same 
struggle  for  place  at  the  crowded  harbour  mouth ; 
but  the  Port  Captain  had  taken  counsel  through 
the  night,  and,  as  the  light  grew,  we  saw  signals 
at  the  harbour  staff  that  set  order  out  of  the  chaos 
of  moving  ships.  'Vessel  whose  number  follows  to 
enter' — a  signal  there  could  be  no  mistaking. 
First  the  lame  duck,  the  dismasted  barque,  was 


OFF  ST.   MICHAEL'S  ISLE  87 

taken  in,  and  we  had  no  grievance  as  we  watched 
her  sheer  and  falter  in  the  wake  of  her  gallant 
salvor.  Next  the  Frenchman,  bowing  gracefully 
to  the  long  swell,  followed  on.  Then,  in  line  and 
order  to  the  sixth  ship,  we  sheered  under  the 
breakwater,  to  be  hurriedly  turned  and  moored 
anigh  the  coal  stacks. 

To  our  captain's  demands  the  Port  Authority 
shrugged  a  gold-laced  shoulder.  "No  posseeble, 
Capitan,"  he  said.  "Ve  are  very  sorrow,  but  de 
order  has  come  from  Lisboa.  Ve  can  onlee  give 
you  coal  to  sufficient  de  nearest  port,  until  dese 
coal  ships  come  in.  You  vill  coal  for  de  Ber- 
mudas, Capitan."  Thus  was  the  law  laid  down, 
and  we  had  no  course  but  to  take  our  allowance, 
and  that  as  speedily  as  the  over-worked,  toil-worn 
carriers  could  put  it  aboard.  Nor  were  we  al- 
lowed to  linger,  for  as  soon  as  the  last  basket  was 
emptied  and  the  weights  checked  the  pilot  was 
shouting  lustily — "Heaf  'way,  forrad,  sare!" 
Threading  a  careful  course  among  the  closely 
moored  vessels,  we  put  to  sea  again. 

The  fleet  of  waiting  ships  in  the  offing  seemed 
searce  diminished,  and  trails  of  smoke  wrack  to  the 
nor'ard  marked  others  on  the  way. 

The  wind  had  veered  to  sou'-west,  still  blowing 
strong.  As  we  cleared  the  Islands  a  large  barque 
swept  up  from  the  south,  with  yards  squared  and 
full  tops'ls  distent  to  the  wind.  She  crossed  our 
bows,  running  swiftly  for  the  Channel. 


88  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

"There  she  goes,"  said  our  Captain,  enthusias- 
tic. "Egad!"  (thinking  of  our  sixty  hours'  de- 
tention and  coal  at  8  milreis  the  ton)  "there's 
something  to  be  said  for  square  sail  yet!" 


XII 
AT  BAZAAR 

T  HAD  stopped  for  a  moment  at  Irani's  tobacco 
shop  in  the  Bazaar,  only  for  a  moment,  no 
more,  while  I  laid  an  information  against  the  last 
box  of  Burma  cheroots  that  he  had  supplied. 
There  was  a  question  about  the  brand,  and  Irani 
went  into  the  shop  to  see  about  it.  During  the 
short  interval  that  he  was  away  I  was  flanked  and 
surrounded  by  an  army  of  hangers-on:  hangers-on 
indeed,  for  they  swarmed  on  the  wheels  and  steps 
of  my  gharry — one  sat  on  the  roadway  in  front  of 
the  horse  so  that  escape  was  difficult.  The  near 
side  was  taken  up  by  market  touts;  the  off  by  a 
horde  of  beggars.  On  the  left  I  was  offered  tempt- 
ing bargains  in  silks,  brassware,  bootlaces,  walk- 
ing-sticks; on  the  right,  open  sores  were  laid  bare 
to  my  eyes,  a  blind  man  was  thrust  forward,  mut- 
tering texts  from  the  Koran,  an  armless  creature 
had  his  kumis  raised  to  show  that  there  was  no 
deception.  An  aged  dame,  whose  long  skinny 
fingers  touched  my  boots  in  reverence,  and  naked 
toddling  children  joined  pipingly  in  the  call  for 
alms.  On  one  point  they  were  all  agreed — that  I 
was  a  Burra  Sahib  of  the  utmost  description — that 

89 


90  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

I  was  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice.  Doubt- 
less, to  them  I  was.  The  half-burned  weed  in  my 
hand  (Mrs.  Middleton's,  at  half  an  anna  per 
;each)  represented  a  sum  that  would  have  given  a 
meal  to  one  at  least. 

All  had  suggestions.  This  way  I  had  to  buy  a 
supply  of  bootlaces  and  walking-sticks;  that  way 
I  was  to  apportion  a  certain  amount  of  backsheesh, 
and  all  would  be  well. 

Then  the  rival  parties  quarrelled.  The  'mer- 
chants' at  my  left  asked  the  other  beggars,  "Could 
they  not  go  away  and  allow  business  to  go  on." 
The  afflicted  ones  laughed  scornfully  (God! 
What  laughter!)  and  renewed  their  clamour.  A 
buxom  wench,  with  a  puny  baby  hanging  like  a 
leech  to  her,  climbed  up  at  the  back  of  the  gharry 
and  made  hollow  sounds  at  my  ear — to  prove  that 
her  statement  about  want  of  food  was  right.  The 
armless  creature  bumped  its  head  on  the  step  in 
salutation.  The  old  blind  man — most  pathetic  of 
all — swayed  from  side  to  side  droning  something 
about  Allah  and  the  great  virtue  of  charity. 

I  was  in  a  bad  position.  The  'merchants'  I 
could  deal  with.  On  them  I  exhausted  the  'flow- 
ers' of  my  scanty  knowledge  of  the  vernacular, 
with  some  success.  After  barking  out  a  phrase  or 
two  (that  I  had  learned  of  a  foreman  stevedore) 
I  saw  the  walking-stick  wallah  wince  and  move  off. 
The  silk  man  was  dismissed  by  an  allusion  to  his 
immediate  forebears.  With  the  beggars  it  was 


AT  BAZAAR  91 

(different.  I  knew  that  it  was  'up  to  me,'  as  an 
alleged  Sahib,  to  issue  largesse,  but  I  had  the  feel- 
ing that  a  move  of  my  hand  towards  my  pocket 
would  be  telegraphed  far  and  near,  that  the  re- 
serve forces  of  the  beggar  army  would  come  up 
at  the  double.  Already  their  numbers  were  aug- 
mented ;  two  boys  having  but  three  arms  and  a  leg 
between  them  were  pushing  forward,  exalting  me 
— I  was  now  Ituzoor,  no  less!  At  this  juncture 
Irani's  shopman  came  to  my  rescue.  Stick  in  hand 
he  scattered  the  group  of  'merchants.'  I  noticed 
that  (though  menace  there  was)  he  never  struck 
out  at  the  beggars.  After  waving  his  stick  and 
stamping  feet — to  no  effect — he  suggested  that  I 
should  apportion  a  small  sum.  This  I  did.  Nine 
annas  and  seven  pice  divided  among  the  more  sorry 
cases.  The  stout  wench  got  nothing.  I  had  the 
idea  that  her  broken  English  was  too  cleverly 
professional.  Then  Irani  came,  and,  my  business 
settled,  I  drove  off. 

Clop  .  .  .  cloppety  .  .  .  clop  we  went  down 
the  Hornby  Road.  The  worn  Arab  between  the 
shafts  had  a  shoe  loose,  and  the  gharry  wallah  was 
for  taking  no  risks.  At  a  cross  roads  there  was  a 
block  of  traffic,  and,  while  waiting,  I  was  conscious 
of  hurried  breathing  behind  the  hood.  The  buxom 
wench — I  think  it  was  the  same  one — had  left  her 
baby  and  was  keenly  in  chase.  We  moved  on. 
She  ran  behind,  grasping  the  back  axle. 

"O,  werry  good  Captan.  Sahib  (Huh!,    Huh/)] 


92  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

Me  werry  poor  beggar,  Sahib  (Huh!.  Huh!)  .  .  . 
Me  no  mangee  (Huh!  Huh!}.  .  .  .  No  rice 
\Huh!}.  .  »  ."  With  her  disengaged  hand  she 
beat  a  tattoo  on  the  place  where  rice  'does  most 
good.  .  .  .  "You  give  two  anna,  Sahib  (Huh! 
Huh!  Huh!}.  .  .  .  Only  two  anna,  Sa !  (Huh!}" 

We  were  turning  into  the  Fort.  It  was  the  time 
of  the  evening  drive.  Gharries  and  motors  went 
by,  and  I  was  hotly  conscious  of  amused  regard. 

"No  mangee,  Sahib  (Huh!  Huh!}.  ...  No 
one  pice,  werry  good  (Huh!  Huh!},  werry  good 
Captan  Sahib." 

I  stared  stolidly  ahead,  found  apparent  interest 
in  the  high  buildings  of  the  Fort,  in  the  homeward 
thronging  crowds  on  the  sidewalk.  In  a  few  min- 
utes I  would  be  at  Greens,  and  the  'durwan  there 
would  see  to  it  that  I  was  no  further  molested. 

She  was  running  easily  behind.  Then,  suddenly, 
— the  patter  of  her  feet  ceased.  Ah!  She  had 
given  up.  ...  I  was  sure  she  was  an  impostor. 
No  starveling  could  run  like  that.  The  baby  too  I 
That  would  be  a  stock  property. 

At  Greens  I  paid  my  gharry  off.  There  was 
the  usual  post-settlement  demanded,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  a  firm  refusal,  I  was  interrupted — "Me 

poor  beggar,  Sahib.  .  .  .  No  mangee,  no " 

Grinning  candidly  as  an  old  acquaintance,  the 
beggar  wench  was  there  at  my  elbow.  She  must 
have  ridden  on  the  back  axle ! 

"Two  anna.  .  .  .  You  give  two  anna,  werry 


AT  BAZAAR  93 

goo'd  Captain  Sahib.  .  .  .  Me  werry  poor  beg- 
gar." 

I  gave  in. 

Two  annas !  She  said  something  about  my  be- 
ing her  father  and  her  mother,  salaamed,  and 
made  off. 

I  wonder  if  Irani's  shopman  put  her  on  to  fol- 
low me  ? 

Anyway,  I  shall  go  no  more  to  Bazaar  to  com- 
plain about  his  cheroots.  I  often  wondered  why 
he  has  his  shop  there,  when  his  business  is  all  with 
sailor-folk.  Now  I  think  I  know. 


XIII 
THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  NORTH 

EARLY  in  November  the  whalers  come  home. 
The  binding  ice  has  then  raised  an  impen- 
etrable barrier  in  the  North;  so,  'clean'  ship  or 
'full'  ship,  they  must  return  to  snug  quarters,  their 
enterprise  concluded  for  the  season.  Six  months 
have  gone  since  Dundee  saw  them  set  out,  'braw 
lads  and  hardy,'  and  news  of  their  'faring'  has 
been  rumoured  and  scant.  When  autumn  gives 
place  to  winter,  anxious  eyes  are  cast  on  the  ship- 
ping columns  for  news  of  the  adventurers.  The 
ships'  owners  are  not  the  least  eager,  for  there  are 
no  market  returns  to  quote  the  progress  of  their 
investment,  and  even  one  whale  may  mean  all  the 
difference  between  profit  and  loss.  The  relatives 
of  the  crews,  too,  have  their  interest  in  the  venture, 
and  'clean'  ships  (ships,  that  is,  that  have  made  no 
catch)  mean  a  winter  of  poverty  and  hardship. 
The  whale  ships,  although  they  may  not  have  seen 
one  another  since  clearing  the  Tay,  generally  ar- 
rive together  within  a  few  days.  Rumours  of  their 
presence  on  the  coast  get  about.  Fishermen  report 
having  seen  them  anchored,  'wind-bound'  in  some 

94 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  NORTH      95 

remote  West  Highland  bay,  or  trawlers  running 
in  with  their  fish  speak  of  having  seen  square  sail 
to  the  nor'ard.  Then  glad  hearts  in  Dundee  read 
of  their  arrival;  a  bare,  brief  paragraph  enough, 
but  a  wealth  of  incident  to  them.  'Lerwick, 
Nov. — ,  Dundee  whaler  Diana  has  put  in;  all  well. 
She  has  three  whales.  Spoke  Eclipse  with  a  catch 
of  four  on  Aug.  18.'  A  reassuring  report  to  begin 
with,  and  one  that  augurs  well  for  the  rest  of  the 
fleet! 

Fast  following  come  reports  of  other  arrivals  at 
northern  harbours,  but  the  wind  has  not  veered 
fair  for  the  passage  to  Dundee,  and  the  whalebone 
will  not  suffer  for  the  keeping.  There  they  lie  until 
the  wind  goes  nor'ard  of  east,  and  ensures  them  a 
clean  run  to  the  Tay  bar.  Although  they  are 
auxiliary  vessels,  having  steam  at  command,  they 
hoard  their  slender  remainder  of  coal  for  pilotage 
waters,  and  finish  their  passage  under  sail.  They 
clear  the  Pentland  Firth  and  stand  on  past  Buchan 
Ness  for  the  Bell  Rock.  On,  this,  the  last  lap  of 
the  voyage,  the  toil  and  hardship  of  the  long,  dark- 
less days  are  forgotten,  and  the  crew,  light  of 
heart,  have  eyes  for  nothing  but  the  familiar  land- 
marks, the  sentinels  of  home.  In  anticipation  of 
his  pay-day  the  steersman  may  wear  a  preoccupied 
look  that  consorts  ill  with  his  important  post,  and 
to  the  Mate's  sharp  demand,  "How's  her  head?" 
may  make  the  startling  answer,  "Forty-five  pounds, 
seventeen,  sir!"  In  due  course  they  reach  the  bar, 


96  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

and  steaming  bravely  up  the  broad  estuary  of  the 
Tay,  with  flags  apeak,  they  cast  anchor  in  their 
home  waters  with  a  gallant  cheer,  boasting  of  their 
fortunes,  or  maybe  a  muttered  malediction  on  an 
unprofitable  venture.  When  the  tide  serves  they 
weigh  anchor  and  pass  into  dock,  with  half  the 
longshoremen  of  Dundee  on  the  pierhead  to  see 
them  safely  in.  No  show  vessels  these,  with  glit- 
ter of  brass  and  glint  of  polished  teak  to  throw 
back  the  waning  beams  of  the  November  sun,  but 
gallant,  seaman-like  barques,  with  the  scars  of  the 
Arctic  on  their  sturdy  sides.  The  first  in  is  greeted 
with  a  popular  ovation,  for  she  has  three  whales 
aboard,  and  there  is  beer  in  that  for  every  dock- 
side  loafer.  She  warps  into  dock  amid  a  babel  of 
cries  and  salutations.  Jest  and  counter-jest  are 
bandied  about,  and  domestic  items  of  months  back 
are  shouted  from  the  housetops.  A  woman  on 
the  quayside  shouts,  "Is  that  you,  Jock.  Man,  but 
ye've  grown  an  awfu'  whusker!"  The  subject  of 
her  regard  waves  a  grimy  hand.  "Ay,  an'  it's  me, 
an'  mair  nor  ma  whusker,  Ah've  grow'd  a  ruddy 
thirst,  ma  lass!  Ha'e  ye  onything  i'  th'  bottle?" 
A  tall-hatted  gentleman  of  important  demeanour 
(he  probably  has  an  interest  in  the  ship)  is  even 
made  the  object  of  an  impertinent  query,  for  this 
is  the  day  when  'sailor's  license'  is  admitted.  "Haw, 

Mister  Mac ,  ha'e  ye  gotten  intil  th'  Toon 

Cooncil  yet?"  shouts  a  weazened  harpooner,  and 
the  important  gentleman  looks  annoyed.  Some  one 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  NORTH      97 

in  the  crowd  cries,  "De'il  a  bit  o'  in,  he's  ower 
thrang  wi'  th'  Skule  Brod!"  A  boisterous  guffaw 
greets  this  sally,  and  the  humour  of  the  crowd 
becomes  more  pert  and  personal.  Amid  all  this 
rough  and  rude,  though  hearty,  expression  of  high 
spirits  there  are  pathetic  things:  eyes  may  be  seek- 
ing in  vain  for  familiar  figures  and  kent  faces,  and 
'ears  may  hearken  eagerly  for  a  loved  voice.  A 
stalwart  young  sailorman  leans  over  the  to'gallant 
rail,  face  drawn  and  ghastly,  listening  to  ill-news 
from  a  sympathetic  friend.  '  .  .  .  Puir  Jean,  she 
wisna'  ower  strong  ...  a  fortnicht  come  We'ds'- 
day  ...  an'  yer  mither's  gotten  the  wean;  hit's 
daein'  gey  an'  weel  ...  a  braw  bairn.  .  .  ." 
The  moving  ship  carries  him  beyond  earshot,  but 
he  still  leans  over  the  rail,  unmindful  of  the  cries 
of  his  shipmates  and  the  sharp  orders  of  the  Mate; 
alone  with  his  misery. 

At  the  far  end  of  King  William  Dock  ropes  are 
run  out,  and  the  ship  is  made  fast  to  the  quay  wall. 
With  the  fastening  of  the  moorings  the  voyage  is 
over  and  the  crew  are  at  liberty.  Their  friends  on 
the  quayside  do  not  wait  for  a  gangway  to  be  put 
out,  but  clamber  aboard  over  the  rail,  and  the 
whaler's  'decks  are  soon  crowded  as  they  have 
never  been  since  she  last  set  out.  Friends  and  rela- 
tives greet  the  whalemen  openly,  being  free  of  the 
ship,  and  the  'emblem  of  amity,'  the  humble  'hauf- 
mutchkin,'  passes  from  hand  to  hand,  and  never 
travels  far.  Others  there  are.  to  meet  the  wan- 


98  *  BROKEN  STOWAGE'. 

derers  whose  movements  are  less  open;  keen-eyed 
persons  slink  furtively  down  the  fo'cas'le  scuttle, 
taking  advantage  of  the  preoccupation  of  the  ship's 
officers.  They  are  'share-discounters,'  and  though 
undoubtedly  useful  to  sailormen,  their  methods  are 
not  looked  upon  favourably  by  those  in  authority. 
Tailors'  runners  and  boarding  masters  follow  in 
their  wake,  for  they,  too,  have  a  fear  of  the  Mer- 
chant Shipping  Act,  which  provides  for  their  pun- 
ishment if  they  board  a  ship  within  a  certain  num- 
ber of  hours  of  her  arrival.  Cabs  rattle  down 
over  the  cobble-stones  on  the  quay  and  range  them- 
selves at  the  gangway.  They  have  deserted  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Exchange  on  hearing  word 
of  the  whaler's  arrival.  The  Captain  comes 
ashore,  accompanied  by  the  tall-hatted  gentleman, 
who  has  evidently  forgotten  his  annoyance  in  the 
sense  of  assured  prosperity  which  he  gathers  from 
the  Captain's  report.  In  groups  and  parties  the 
crew  leave  the  ship,  talking  loudly  and  boisterously, 
impatient  of  the  occasional  restraining  hand  of 
their  womenfolk.  A  police  watchman  takes  charge 
of  the  deserted  ship  and  paces  the  deck  in  a  busi- 
ness-like manner.  Some  captive  bears,  in  hutches 
on  deck,  start  howling  lugubriously  for  the  meal 
which  has  been  overlooked.  The  watchman  finds 
some  scraps  in  the  galley,  throws  them  a  bite,  and 
silence  is  over  the  ship.  Bustle  and  movement 
being  absent,  one  notices  the  dreadful  stench  that 
pervades  her,  though  one  reflects  that  she  would 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  NORTH      99 

have  a  sorry  welcome  without  it.  Dirt  and  grime 
and  rust,  litter  and  stench,  coal-tar  within  and 
without,  she  carries  a  goodly  share  of  the  harvest 
of  the  North  within  her  sturdy  timbers. 


XIV 
LA  CANTINIERE 

TTTHEN  'daylight  comes  there  is  no  one  astir 
on  the  Quai  'du  Lazaret:  save  fisher-folk 
and  the  pilots,  the  Marseillais  lie  long  abed.  Only 
the  ship-watch  sees  the  first  rosy  flush  on  the  dis- 
tant hills  of  La  Couronne  and  marks  the  sun's 
first  alighting  on  the  city — a  glint  of  gold  where 
his  pilot  rays  strike  on  the  Christ  on  the  pinnacle 
of  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde. 

At  five,  the  armed  Customs  officer  comes  out  on 
the  open  quay,  stretching  lustily,  and  saying  "Ah— 
la,  la"  between  his  yawns.  Soon  he  is  joined  by 
another  watcher  of  the  night — the  Garde  Sani- 
taire,  whose  duty  it  is  to  see  that  no  plague  germs 
are  landed  surreptitiously  from  the  East  Indiaman 
at  the  Quai.  The  two  half-slept  Gardiens  seat 
themselves  on  soft  bales  of  silk  cuttings,  say  "All- 
la,  la"  together,  and  exchange  yawns  in  that  mys- 
terious sympathy  that  has  puzzled  scientists  and 
others  since  yawns  were. 

So — till  six — when  Madame  Bartelmy  comes  by 
the  dockhead  and  sets  her  business  in  order  for  the 
day.  Unlocking,  she  sets  down  the  hinged  flaps  of 
her  buvette  ambulante,  a  stall  arrangement  for  the 

100 


LA  CANTINIERE  101 

sale  of  drinks,  that  stands  chained  to  the  wall  'dur- 
ing the  night, — and  the  quiet  of  the  'dockside  is 
broken  by  a  merry  clink  of  the  glasses  she  sets  out 
in  polished  array. 

"Bonjour,  Madame!  Madame  Bartelmy,  bon- 
jour!." The  Gardes  raise  their  kepis  in  courteous 
salute. 

"Bonjour,  Messieurs,"  says  Madame,  and  she 
pours  out  a  liberal  'morning'  for  her  early  cus- 
tomers. 

Madame  is  of  about  fifty,  but  as  yet  no  sign  of 
grey  is  permitted  to  appear  in  her  neatly  coiffured 
hair.  Wrinkles — but  few.  The  grande  secret  is 
hers,  and  her  pleasant  face  shows  little  trace  of 
care.  To  the  waist  she  is  trim,  in  a  close-fitting 
bodice,  and  from  there  voluminous  skirts  bunch 
out — fold  upon  fold — like  crinoline  almost.  She 
wears  a  blue  apron  at  her  work,  and  from  a  bulg- 
ing pocket  peeps  a  neatly  folded  Petit  Marseillais. 

A  young  boy  assistant  joins  her  at  the  stall,  car- 
rying a  large  basket  of  fine  French  bread  in  long 
sticks,  hard  dry  sausages,  round  fresh  grapes — and 
a  plentiful  supply  of  coloured  paper  to  take  the 
place  of  plates  in  the  hands  of  Messieurs  les 
ouvriers.  Then  the  workmen  come — not  sullenly 
hurrying  to  heel,  but  lounging  'down  the  'dockside 
in  parties  of  two  and  four,  calling  greetings  to  one 
another,  shaking  hands — right  hand  and  left.  It 
is  bonjour,  indeed,  and  Madame' s  quick  hands  are 
taxed  by  rapid  service  as  the  men  purchase  their 


102  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

breakfast — a  foot  or  so  of  the  fine  brea'd,  a  saus- 
age of  unknown  ingredients — and  after,  a  glass  of 
wine  to  send  all  home.  Then  comes  a  lighting  of 
cigarettes  with  vile  sulphur  matches  that  need  a 
minute's  shielding  in  the  hollowed  hands  before 
anything  can  be  done. 

Tout  a  I'heure,  a  cracked  bell  is  set  a-dinning, 
and  the  men  go  to  work. 

Now,  a  short  rest  for  Madame  while  the  small 
boy  polishes  the  glasses  anew.  The  Petit  Mar- 
seillais  is  carefully  unfolded,  and  after  the  major 
points  of  news  have  been  scanned,  Madame  turns 
to  the  enthralling  serial,  'Vertige  d'amour.'  There 
are  six  quarter  columns  of  concentrated  emotion, 
but  Madame  is  a  quick  reader  and  la  suite  a  de- 
main  may  be  reached  before  the  first  of  the  carters 
comes  in,  leading  his  line  of  five  stout  horses  and  a 
long  empty  cart. 

Clattering,  he  goes  up  the  dock  to  a  loading- 
stand,  sets  his  horses  at  ease,  and  returns  to  the 
Buvette  for  his  bread  and  wine.  Others  come  in 
and  join  him  at  the  bar,  cracking  a  jest  with 
Madame  or  talking  of  the  state  of  the  roads.  One 
by  one  the  long  carts  are  loaded  up,  and  the  carters 
set  off  for  their  oil  mills  with  a  great  cracking  of 
whips. 

The  sun  grows  strong,  having  risen  high  of  the 
Magasins  'du  Port,  and  Madame  spreads  a  gaily 
striped  awning  over  her  stall.  The  official  hour 
has  now  come.  All  the  officials  of  the  Quai  and  les 


LA  CANTINIERE  103 

Docks  pass  rdown  on  their  way  to  their  affairs. 
Baggy-trousered  Douaniers,  Sanitaires  (long- 
nosed  fellows,  these),  Maitres  'du  Port,  Pilotes — 
all  have  to  be  quickly  served,  and  the  big  tumbler 
on  the  shelf,  that  serves  as  the  till,  grows  brown 
with  the  sous  that  Madame  (cleverly  examining 
without  attracting  undue  notice),  tosses  carelessly 
in. 

Now  business  slackens.  The  officials  are  saun- 
tering leisurely  to  their  desks.  All  the  men  are  at 
work,  and  even  a  Dago  stevedore  would  hardly 
think  of  a  sortie  so  soon  after  starting.  But  there 
are  ways  for  those  whom  hasty  rising  or  a  block 
at  the  bridges  has  delayed  beyond  the  point  of 
starting. 

"Allez,  Marcel — Fa-fen"  says  Madame,  and 
the  small  boy  takes  up  a  basket  in  which  bottles  are 
arranged:  cognac  for  the  rich,  ordinaire  for  the 
thrifty,  coupe  for  les  pauvres.  A  bucket  of  clean 
water  and  a  cloth  for  the  glasses  completes  the 
equipment,  and  Marcel  climbs  up  the  long  gang- 
way leading  to  the  ship  and  makes  his  way  to  the 
cargo  hatches,  shouting  as  he  goes,  "Qui  vettt 
boire?  Oui  veut  boire,  apres?" 


XV 

SULIMAN  BUX 

Tll/'HEN  I  first  knew  Suliman  Bux  he  was  a 
^  '  'gharry  lenga'  at  the  Bombay  Dock  gates. 
This  particular  business  requires  only  strong  legs 
and  unlimited  pertinacity.  The  strong  legs  are 
necessary  that  a  successful  gharry  lenga  may  run 
faster  than  a  merely  ordinary  gharry  lenga.  In 
such  employment  the  race  is  ever  to  the  swift. 
Pertinacity  is  also  needed  in  conduct  of  the  busi- 
ness— the  important  one  of  running  to  fetch  a 
carriage  from  the  nearest  hackney  stand  immedi- 
ately a  white  Sahib  may  turn  out  of  the  dock  gates. 
Suliman  had  all  the  attributes  of  success  in  his  in- 
itial calling.  He  was  light  of  foot,  he  was  not 
readily  discouraged.  His  upper  body  was  of 
small  account:  a  weak  looking  chest,  thin  puny 
arms — but  his  legs!  Ah!  Like  every  growing 
thing  in  India,  he  was  all  legs.  Always,  he  was  in 
fine  trim  for  running.  He  was  never  burdened  by 
an  excess  of*  clothing.  He  wore  a  pocket  handker- 
chief, suitably  disposed.  Suliman  Bux ! 

He  would  hang  about  the  dock  gates  all  day. 
During  the  working  hours  in  the  docks,  when  few 

104 


SULIMAN  BUX  105 

seafaring  gentlemen  would  require  carriages,  he; 
could  be  seen  playing  with  other  small  boys  at  a 
sort  of  'knuckle-taw,'  a  game  in  which  he  would 
bend  certain  of  his  fingers  far  back,  like  a  catapult, 
and  propel  his  marbles  with  an  amazing  force. 

It  was  well  not  to  let  Suliman  see  you  watching 
his  skill  at  the  ploy,  for  then  he  would  bound  to 
his  feet  and  set  off,  his  long  brown  legs  spurring 
on  the  hard  sun-baked  roadway,  his  shrill  voice 
yelling, — "Gharry!  .  .  .  Oo  .  .  .  ee,  gharriwal- 
lahf"  He  was  already  off,  hot  foot,  on  your 
service,  whether  you  were  desirous  of  taking  a 
carriage  or  not.  It  would  be  no  matter  that  per- 
haps gharries  a-plenty  were  standing  in  the  rank 
near  by, — that  a  wave  of  your  walking  stick  would 
bring  half  a  dozen  crowding  around, — there  was 
an  excitement*  about  Suliman's  way  of  working 
that  drew  attention,  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
ignore  all  that  he  was  doing  for  you. 

How  he  would  run !  The  intentness  of  the  busi- 
ness !  The  way'he  would  rush  to  the  very  sorriest 
looking  horse  in  the  hackney  stand,  hustle  the 
driver  to  pick  up  the  handful  of  feed  from  the 
poor  brute's  nose  and  stow  the  bag  under  the  back 
axle !  The  air  of  it !  Almost  as  though  the  whole 
world  was  standing  still  until  the  Sahib  was  served ! 

Suliman  would  then  whip  off  a  scrap  of  a  muslin 
cap  and  scrub,  scrub  with  industry  at  the  dingy 
cushions,  then  step  off — the  gharry  at  your  service. 
He  would  salaam  expectantly,  his  small  chest 


106  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

panting  with  his  exertions.  Two  annas  was  the 
price.  "Chllao,  gharrlwallah"  he  would  say  when 
he  had  received  his  'doceur,  and  he  would  salaam 
you  grandly  as  the  broken-winded  arab  got  into 
stride. 

On  occasion,  Suliman  would  have  difficulties  in 
the  conduct  of  his  business,  and  this  was  where  his 
pertinacity  would  be  useful.  Certain  Sahibs,  not 
properly  conscious  of  the  dignity  of  their  high  sta- 
tion as  'white  gen-tlee-man,'  might  have  a  demo- 
cratic desire  to  walk.  The  cooler  airs  of  the  eve- 
ning, the  afterglow  of  rosy  sunset,  might  tempt 
them  to  a  stroll  over  to  the  Queens  Road  or  the 
Maidan.  It  was  Suliman's  business  to  discourage 
such  persons.  Legs  were  certainly  of  value  to  a 
( gharry  lenga*  (that  much  he  was  prepared  to  ad- 
mit), but  he  could  see  no  good  purpose  served  by 
undue  exercise  of  these  limbs  by  those  whom  he 
considered  his  clients.  It  was  neither  right  nor 
proper  that  a  real  Sahib  should  walk  on  the  street 
like  an  ordinary  person  when  Suliman  was  at  hand 
to  procure  a  conveyance.  He  objected.  He 
would  shew  his  dissatisfaction  by  accompanying 
you  for  a  mile — if  you  could  stand  it  for  as  long — 
marching  a-step  (but  cleverly  out  of  reach  of  your 
cane),  and  murmuring  now  and  anon, — "Sahib! 
.  .  .  Oh,  Sahib,  gharri  mungta?  .  .  .  Hum 
gharri  lenga,  Sahib?"  (Sir,  do  you  want  a  carriage, 
Sir?  .  .  .  Shall  I  bring  a  carriage,  Sir?) 

Some* time  passed.    All  that  was  before  the  hair! 


SULIMAN  BUX  107 

came  on  his  face.  With  the  coming  of  the  years, 
younger  and  more  active  chokras  did  him  out  of 
business.  There  was  not  much  in  it,  anyway.  Cer- 
tainly not  enough  to  gratify  the  ambitions  that  I 
am  sure  Suliman  possessed.  He  was  no  longer 
content  to  hang  around  the  dock  gates.  He  was 
now  somewhat  broadened  and  carried  some 
weight:  the  meagre  rations  that  did  tolerably  well 
to  support  the  light  frame  of  a  gharry  lenga,  had 
somehow  to  be  supplemented  to  meet  the  demands 
of  a  swiftly  growing  body.  He  passed  into  the 
dock  and  went  aboard  the  ships  to  do  a  trade  in 
'pos'karts'  and  second-hand  magazines.  Unable 
to  read,  he  invented  a  code  of  markings  to  enable 
him  to  identify  his  good-selling  lines  in  the  latter, 
— the  covers  of  his  periodicals  were  blazed  to  him 
by  dabs  of  cochineal  or  betel.  He  knew  the  'By-e- 
shtander9  by  a  half-moon,  the  Police  Gazette  by  a 
line,  Dainty  Novelettes  by  a  rude  bull's-eye.  Suli- 
man understood  his  trade.  By  a  ready  wit,  he  saw 
that  Police  Gazettes  and  Dainty  Novelettes  were 
the  right  reading  for  sailormen.  Also,  he*  learnt 
the  times  and  seasons  for  his  goods.  At  the  pre- 
cise psychological  moment  when  one  was  thinking 
it  was  too  hot  to  write  a  long  letter,  when  one 
was  wishing  that  post  cards  were  on  hand, — Hutt, 
— Suliman  would  appear  from  out  the  arches  of  a 
dock  crane  with  fine  pictorial  views  of  Malabar 
Hill  and  the  Parsee  Tower  of  Silence.  Fine  pic- 
ture post  cards — giving  opportunity  for  an  open- 


io8  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

ing  to  one's  brief  hot-weather  correspondence, 
'What  do  you  think  of  this  view?' 

A  small  measure  of  prosperity  came  to  him  at 
this  phase  of  his  career.  I  noted,  from  time  to 
time,  that  he  was  adding  to  his  wardrobe.  It  is  by 
personal  adornment  that  one  may  gauge  prosperity 
among  the  shipboard  pedlers  at  Bombay.  A  little 
at  a  time.  First  come  shoes,  raw  country-hide  ones 
with  curly  upturned  toepieces — it  is  not  until  a 
position  is  assured  that  the  shiniest  of  patent 
leathers  are  worn.  Caps  and  turbans  follow — 
streaked,  as  affairs  go  well,  with  cunning  threads 
of  silver  or  gold.  It  is  sometime  later  before 
jacket  and  'waskut'  appear, — concessions  as  they 
are  to  an  European  way  of  life  that  may  only  be 
balanced  by  an  enhancement  of  trade.  Suliman  ac- 
quired a  wardrobe.  ^  I  saw  it  being  put  on,  piece 
by  piece. : 

From  'pos'lcarts*  and  the  By-e-shtander  (and 
Dainty  Novelettes,}  he  came  to  be  a  'box-wallah.' 
His  stock  of  braces,  buttons  and  bootlaces,  black- 
ing and  bianco,  were  kept  in  an  old  Fry's  choco- 
late box,  a  shabby  old  thing  which  I  am  sure  Suli- 
man despised — by  the  way  he  slapped  it  about  in 
his  dealings.  As  his  business  flourished,  he  pro- 
cured a  handsome  cabinet  of  polished  teak  with  a 
glass  lid,  and  even  I  saw  the  pride  with  which  he 
took  out  his  key  and  unlocked  the  lid  in  order  that 
one  would  feel  the  confidence  of  his  open  show, — 
as  opposed  to  the  suspicion  that  might  be  engen- 


SULIMAN  BUX  109 

Hered  by  other  'box-wallahs'  in  permitting  an  in- 
spection only  through  the  glass  lid. 

His  wares!  Cheap  safety  razors  that  were  in- 
ordinately safe;  fountain  pens  that  objected  to 
fount — or  founted  unduly;  patent  strops  that 
rolled  up  and  clipped  the  fingers  if  one  released 
the  grip ;  tinted  eye-glasses  that  gave  one  an  even 
more  grotesque  view  of  dockside  life;  buttons, 
beads,  needles,  thread — collar-e-shtuds.  All  these 
he  had.  He  did  business.  He  prospered.  He 
had  a  marvellous  memory  for  faces.  He  had  a 
way  of  insinuating  that  he  was  really  an  old  friend. 
He  would  glow  with  a  fine  proud  smile  on  first 
meeting,  as  though  his  whole  thought  had  been  in 
your  interest  since  last  you  had  been  in  the  port. 
He  did  not — at  this  date — use  the  term  'Sahib' 
so  often.  'Marster'  had  become  his  form  of  ad- 
'dress.  "Arre,  Marster,"  he  would  say  to  a  new- 
comer, in  appeal  for  custom,  "...  I  savvy  you 
long  time  comin'  Bombay!" 

Now !  Ah !  Now,  I  would  like  to  see  Suliman 
Bux  at  his  old  trade  as  a.' gharry  lenga'  Ye  Gods ! 
He  has  grown  fat !  He  weighs  about  fifteen  stone. 
His  cheeks  bulge.  He  shows  every  sign  of  excess 
in  the  succulent  ghee.  He  has  a  red-dyed  whisker, 
— not  the  flowing  beard  that  adds  dignity  to  a  man 
of  stature,  but  straggling  wisps,  untended  like 
cocoa-matting.  His  'waskut,'  in  the  proportion  of 
circumference  at  top  and  bottom,  is  like  a  crinoline. 
His  polished  wood  box  is  still  with  him,  but  now 


i io  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

contains  only  a  small  proportion  of  his  wares.  He 
employs  a  coolie  to  carry  his  many  bundles.  He 
has  brassware  and  sandal-wood  articles,  silks, 
china,  ebony  elephants,  carpets,  silverwork.  Give 
him  but  the  word,  and  he  will  measure  you  for  a 
longshore  suit  of  what  he  fondly  asserts  to  be  the 
latest  London  cut.  He  is  no  longer  a  mere  'box- 
wallah,'  he  has  become  a  'marchant.' 

He  chews  betelnut,  sitting  in  odd  corners  of  the 
'dock  sheds  during  the  heat  of  the  day.  Certainly, 
he  bustles  in  the  cooler  hours  and  on  Sundays.  He 
presents  a  card.  Suliman  Bux  is  not  now  his  name. 
He  is  one  of  the  great  firm  of  'Messrs  Cheep  Jack 
and  Compny.  Navil,  civel,  and  Mility  taylors  and 
general  orders  supplied.'  As  he  talks, — a  wonder- 
fully fluent  colloquial  English  it  is,  too, — he  may 
carelessly  whisk  aside  his  alpaca  long-coat  to  ex- 
pose a  fancy  silk  waskut,  the  buttons  arrayed  in 
sequence  being  our  Uncle  Sam's  gold  dollars.  Suli- 
man has  arrived  at  the  height  of  his  prosperity. 
He  has  two  wives  and  owns  an  interest  in  a  race- 
horse that  is  entered  in  the  second  Monsoon 
Meeting!  What  do  you  think  of  that  now? 


"C^OR  long  voyages — foreign  away — sail-power 
A  still  survives  in  a  few  ill-found,  undermanned 
vessels,  whose  stunted  spars  and  feeble  spread  of 
canvas  are  but  pathetic  relics  of  a  stately  fleet. 
The  demands  of  the  day  have  called  for  a  greater 
carrying  capacity  and  quicker  transport.  Steam, 
the  mighty  revolutionary,  has  ousted  the  square 
rigger  from  nearly  every  sea  route,  and  the  spec- 
tacle of  lofty  ships,  still  staunch  and  seaworthy, 
lying  idly  at  their  rusty  moorings,  is  to  be  seen  at 
every  port  in  the  Kingdom. 

In  home  waters  the  coasting  trade,  though  now 
largely  exploited  by  an  ever-increasing  fleet  of 
steamers,  has  still  a  place  and  purpose  for  the 
smaller  sailing  vessels,  and  never  a  wind  blows  east 
or  west  outside  the  citadels  of  commerce,  but  there 
are  sailing  craft  to  set  out  or  put  in — coasters, 
humble  units  of  the  great  fleet  that  flies  the  Red 
Ensign. 

They  are  vessels  of  no  great  burthen,  these  sea- 
worthy little  ships  that  set  about  bravely  at  van- 
tage of  the  unbought  wind.  Most  are  of  a  light 
'draught  of  water,  that  they  may  the  more  readily 

in 


ii2  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

cross  the  shallow  bars  of  minor  seaports  an'd  pick 
up  cargo  that  the  deeper  steamers  could  not  ven- 
ture in  for.  They  are  of  many  rigs — barques, 
brigantines,  brigs,  dandys — but  the  most  favoured 
is  that  of  topsail  schooner,  a  fine  rig  for  a  small 
crew — a  handy  sail  plan.  'Fore  and  aft'  to  lie 
close  when  winds  are  contrary,  and  a  square  top- 
sail to  spread  to  a  favouring  breeze.  Among 
them  are  many  ancient  hulls — stout  old  wooden 
walls  that  have  stood  the  stress  of  wind  and 
weather  for  nigh  on  half  a  century.  Built  in  some 
snug  harbour,  away  from  the  feverish  haste  and 
bustle  (and  'scamped'  labours)  of  the  great  ship- 
building centres,  they  have  good  workmanship  in 
them — the  finer  touches  of  the  shipwright's  art 
that  few  owners  will  pay  for  in  these  cut-throat 
'days;  many  have  lines  and  finish  that  would  dis- 
credit no  lordly  brewer  on  a  yachting  trip. 

Taking  such  cargoes  as  the  bustling  steam 
coasters  despise  (and  these  grow  less  and  less  as 
the  years  go  on),  they  strive  to  earn  a  livelihood  if 
not  a  competence  for  those  who  own  and  man 
them.  In  them,  alone  of  all  the  merchant  service, 
there  is  no  place  for  the  foreign  seaman,  indeed, 
the  little  to  be  made  would  offer  no  inducement  to 
bring  Hans  Dans  and  Yon  Smit  from  the  steam- 
heated  forecastle  of  a  steamer. 

Noting  the  port  of  registry  on  the  stern  of  a 
coaster,  it  may  be  taken  that  the  crew  are  natives 
of  that  part  of  the  country — family  ships  as  like 


COASTING  DAYS  113 

as  not,  witH  a  stout  captain  who  may  also  be  the 
owner,  and  his  sons  and  nephews  to  bear  hand  at 
sheet  and  halyard,  and  learn  to  sail  the  vessel  when 
the  old  man  has  gone  the  long  road.  Although 
nothing  great  at  the  science  of  navigation,  the  men 
who  sail  the  coasters  are  sterling  seamen,  never  at 
a  loss  for  a  sure  course  in  home  waters,  ready  of 
hand  and  eye  for  the  many  dangers  to  be  met  and 
overcome — peril  of  shoal  and  sandbank,  tempest, 
tide-race,  and,  greatest  of  all,  the  dank  clammy 
fog-wraiths  that  cloud  the  seaman's  master-sense 
when  he  has  direst  need  of  a  clear  outlook. 

Coasters  are  run  on  lines  of  economy,  as  needs 
must  when  freights  are  low  and  competition  close. 
Every  breath  of  wind  is  made  to  serve  a  passage, 
and  when  a  port  is  made  (difficult  of  entry  and 
requiring  a  steam  escort  for  the  winding  channels) , 
it  is  nothing  uncommon  for  the  coaster  to  drop 
anchor  at  the  bar  and  await  the  coming  of  some 
inward-bound  neighbour,  so  that  a  better  bargain 
may  be  struck  with  the  tugman.  A  tide  or  more  on 
the  passage  is  no  great  matter,  but  an  outlav  of 
hard  cash  has  to  be  considered  with  care. 

Many  quaint,  old  sea-customs  are  only  kept 
from  oblivion  by  their  observance  in  the  schooners; 
weekly  payment  is  made  at  the  capstan-head,  and 
where  the  old  man  is  not  too  Welsh,  there  may  be 
a  'blessing'  when  a  cargo  has  been  wound  up  from 
the  dusty  hold.  It  is  the  custom  to  paint  in  a  blue 
streak  on  the  vessel's  side  as  a  sign  of  mourning  in 


ii4  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

the  owner's  family.  These  are  odd  survivals  in 
the  days  of  shipping  offices — when  the  old  man's 
blessing  is  more  likely  to  be  a  curse; — and  who 
would  go  into  mourning  for  a  limited  liability  com- 
pany ? 

Wales  is  the  great  centre  for  coasting  craft: 
from  Carnarvon  and  Beaumaris  to  Milford  in  the. 
South.  Up  the  Bristol  Channel,  they  are  more  for 
steamers — gaunt,  ugly  vessels,  stark  and  bare  as 
only  a  Welsh  steam-collier  can  be, — but  away 
from  the  grimy  coal-fields,  they  build  shapely  hulls, 
fit  them  with  straight  spars  and  stout  wings  of 
well-sewn  canvas,  and  set  them  off  to  harness  the 
Channel  winds  and  bear  a  burthen  from  port  to 
port. 

In  their  names,  the  goo'd  old  tra'ditions  of  sea- 
life  are  kept  in  mind.  'Hogwash'  and  'Buglup* 
may  do  very  well  for  a  steam-carrier — a  monster 
of  mechanics  and  'downright  utility, — but  for  a 
stately  little  craft  that  charms  the  sailor's  eye, 
'Maid  of  Liang elly,'  'Sarah/  'Ann'  and  'Marga- 
ret' or  'Good  Success'  are  the  right  kind  of  names, 
and,  as  a  sailor  tells  you,  there  is  a  very  great  deal 
in  having  the  right  name  for  your  ship.  Who,  for 
instance,  would  do  his  best  for  a  boat  called  the 
'Sheughbog'f  Had  she  been  a  'Marian'  or  a  'Rose. 
'Ann'  her  five  men  might  not  have  left  her  a  stand- 
ing wreck  on  the  Carnarvonshire  coast.  Who 
knows  what  they  might  have  'done  to  save  her, 
if  they  had  a  memory  of  a  slim  maid,  in  Sunday, 


COASTING  DAYS  115 

best,  cheering  her  namesake  as  she  left  the  ways. 
But  'Sheughbog' !  Ugh!  A  vessel  with  a  name  like 
that  has  no  right  to  be  afloat  on  clean  salt  water. 

In  summer-time,  when  God's  good  daylight  is 
long  with  us,  it  is  a  pleasant  life  aboard  the  sail- 
ing coaster.  Setting  off  with  flowing  sheet  down 
the  river  reaches  in  the  first  grey  flush  of  an  early 
dawn,  reaching  out  to  sea  and  the  fresh  salt  breeze, 
slipping  along  by  peak  and  headland,  marking  the 
sights  of  the  Channel — the  liners  that  go  racing  by 
on  their  express,  broad-bowed  tramps  lurching  at 
modest  gait,  white-winged  yachts  leaning  to  the 
breeze  a-pleasuring  no  better  than  we.  And  when 
the  wind  heads  and  we  have  to  beat  round  a  stub- 
born point  of  land,  we  have  a  clear  view  of  the 
countryside  as  we  tack  close  inshore  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  a  tricky  turn  of  tide,  known  only  to  the 
coasting  skipper:  then  about  again — and  a  clear 
wind  course  out  to  sea,  with  the  land  lying  distant 
on  the  weather  quarter.  A  voyage  of  a  day  or 
days,  and  then  to  some  snug  anchorage  or  a  berth 
at  some  village  quay,  and  a  clean  ordered  country 
tavern  at  hand  to  refresh  in  after  the  day's  work 
at  the  cargo  is  over  and  the  last  cart  has  rumbled 
up  the  lanes. 

A  goodly  living,  a  fine  life,  the  coasters' — in  the 
summer!  It  is  a  different  way  of  things  in  the 
winter  months  when  the  reefs  stand  in  the  mains'l 
week  in  and  out.  Long  stormy  voyages  and  an 
all  too  brief  stay  in  port  to  recover  the  time  we 


ii6  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

spend  through  stress  of  weather:  out  on  an  open 
sea;  wet,  miserable,  (disheartened,  aching  of  limbs 
with  the  long  struggle  against  adverse  winds,  sore 
at  wrists  and  neckband  with  the  constant  chafe  of 
sodden  oilskins.  Wind  and  rain  and  frost  and 
snow,  with  a  bitter  channel  sea  upreared  against 
us!  A  hard  life  I 

It  is  well  for  us  that  the  sailor's  thoughts  do 
not  readily  recur  to  the  bitter  times,  that  he  has 
little  liking  to  dwell  on  the  memories  of  heavy 
weather,  the  crash  of  hurtling  seas,  the  icy  whip- 
lash of  the  wind-blown  spray:  but  he  thinks  rather 
of  the  fine  weather — of  days  of  calm,  'drifting 
lazily  by  the  land,  and  harbour  lights  starting  up 
to  view  when  the  light  has  died  from  a  tranquil 
evening  sky. 


XVII 
THE  MERCHANTS'  CUR 


"CATTY'  REID  burst  into  the  half-deck  with 
•*•  a  whoop  of  exultation.  "Come  out,  boys," 
he  yelled.  "Come  out  and  see  what  luck!  The 
James  Flint  comin'  down  the  river,  loaded  and 
ready  for  sea  !  Who-oop  !  What  price  the  Hilda 
now  for  the  Merchants'  Cup?" 

"Oh,  come  off,"  said  big  Jones.  "Come  off  with 
your  Merchants'  Cup.  Th'  James  Flint's  a  sure 
thing,  and  she  wasn't  more  than  half-loaded  when 
we  were  up  at  Crockett  on  Sunday!" 

"Well,  there  she  comes  anyway!  James  Flint, 
sure  enough !  Grade's  house-flag  up,  and  the  Stars 
and  Stripes!" 

We  hustled  on  deck  and  looked  over  by  the 
Sacramento's  mouth.  'Fatty'  was  right.  A  big 
barque  was  towing  down  beyond  San  Pedro.  The 
James  Flint!  Nothing  else  in  'Frisco  harbour  had 
spars  like  hers;  no  ship  was  as  trim  and  clean  as 
the  big  Yankee  clipper  that  Bully  Nathan  com- 
manded. The  sails  were  all  aloft,  the  boats 
aboard.  She  was  ready  to  put  to  sea. 

117 


ii8  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

Our  cries  brought  the  captain  and  mate  on  'deck, 
and  the  sight  of  the  outward-bounder  made  old 
man  Burke's  face  beam  like  a  nor' west  moon. 

"A  chance  for  ye  now,  byes,"  he  shouted.  "An 
open  race,  bedad!  YeVe  nothin'  t'  be  afraid  of 
if  th'  James  Flint  goes  t'  sea  by  Saturday!" 

Great  was  our  joy  at  the  prospect  of  the 
Yankee's  sailing.  The  'Frisco  Merchants'  Cup 
was  to  be  rowed  for  on  Saturday.  It  was  a  mile- 
and-half  race  for  ships'  boats,  and  three  wins  held 
the  Cup  for  good.  Twice,  on  previous  years,  the 
Hilda's  trim  gig  had  shot  over  the  line — a  hand- 
some winner.  If  we  won  again,  the  Cup  was  ours 
for  keeps !  But  there  were  strong  opponents  to  be 
met  this  time.  The  James  Flint  was  the  most 
formidable.  It  was  open  word  that  Bully  Nathan 
was  keen  on  winning  the  trophy.  Every  one  knew 
that  he  had  deliberately  sought  out  boatmen  when 
the  whalers  came  in  from  the  north.  Those  who 
had  seen  the  Yankee's  crew  at  work  in  their  snaky 
carvel-built  boat  said  that  no  one  else  was  in  it. 
What  chance  had  we  boys  in  our  clinker-built 
against  the  thews  and  sinews  of  trained  whale- 
men? It  was  no  wonder  that  we  slapped  our 
thighs  at  the  prospect  of  a  more  open  race. 

Still,  even  with  the  Yankee  gone,  there  were 
others  in  the  running.  There  was  the  Rhondda 
that  held  the  Cup  for  the  year,  having  won  when 
we  were  somewhere  off  the  Horn;  then  the  Hed- 
wig  Rickmers — a  Bremen  four-master — which  had 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  119 

not  before  competed,  but  whose  green-painted  gig 
was  out  for  practice  morning  and  night.  We  felt 
easy  about  the  Rhonddas  (for  had  we  not,  time 
and  again,  shown  them  our  stern  on  the  long  pull 
from  Green  St.  to  the  outer  anchorage?),  but  the 
Germans  were  different.  Try  as  we  might,  we 
could  never  pull  off  a  spurt  with  them.  No  one 
knew  for  certain  what  they  could  do,  only  old 
Schenke,  their  skipper,  and  he  held  his  tongue 
wisely. 

The  James  Flint  came  round  the  bend,  and  our 
eager  eyes  followed  her  as  she  steered  after  the 
tug.  She  was  making  for  the  outer  anchorage, 
where  the  laden  ships  lie  in  readiness  for  a  good 
start  off. 

uTh'  wind's  'bout  west  outside,"  said  Jones. 
"A  'dead  muzzier' !  She'll  not  put  t'  sea  to-night, 
[even  if  she  has  all  her  'crowd'  aboard." 

"No,  worse  luck !  Mebbe  she'll  lie  over  till 
Saturday  after  all.  They  say  Bully's  dead  set  on 
getting  th'  Cup.  He  might  hang  back.  .  .  . 
Some  excuse — short-handed  or  something!"  Greg- 
son  was  the  one  for  'croaking.' 

"No  hands?"  said  Fatty.  "Huh!  How  could 
he  be  short-handed  when  everybody  knows  that 
Daly's  boardin' -house  is  chock-full  of  fightin' 
Dutchmen?  No,  no!  It'll  be  the  sack  for  Mister 
Bully  B.  Nathan  if  he  lets  a  capful  o'  fair  wind  go 
by  and  his  anchor  down.  Gracie's  agents  '11  watch 
that!" 


120  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

"Well!  'He's  Here  for  th'  night,  anyway.  .  .  . 
There  goes  her  mudhook!" 

We  watched  her  great  anchor  go  hurtling  from 
the  bows  and  heard  the  roar  of  chain  cable  as  she 
paid  out  and  swung  rouncl  to  the  tide. 

"Come  roun',  yo'  boys  dere!  Yo'  'doan'  want 
no  tea,  eh?"  The  nigger  cook,  beating  tattoo  on 
a  saucepan  lid,  called  us  back  to  affairs  of  the  mo- 
ment, and  we  sat  down  to  our  scanty  meal  in  high 
spirits,  talking — all  at  one  time — of  our  chances  of 
the  Cup. 

The  Hilda  had  been  three  months  at  San  Fran- 
cisco, waiting  for  the  wheat  crop  and  a  profitable 
charter.  We  ha'd  come  up  from  Australia,  and 
most  of  our  crew,  having  little  wages  'due  to  them, 
had  deserted  soon  after  our  arrival.  Only  we  ap- 
prentices and  the  sail-maker  remained,  and  we  had 
work  enough  to  set  our  muscles  up  in  the  heavy 
harbour  jobs.  Trimming  coal  and  shovelling  bal- 
last may  not  be  scientific  training,  but  it  is  grand 
work  for  the  back  and  shoulders. 

We  were  in  good  trim  for  rowing.  The  old 
man  had  given  us  every  opportunity,  and  nothing 
he  could  do  was  wanting  to  make  us  fit.  Day  and 
'daily  we  ha'd  set  our  stroke  up  by  the  long  pull 
from  the  anchorage  to  the  wharves,  old  Burke 
coaching  and  encouraging,  checking  ancl  speeding 
us,  till  we  worked  well  together.  Only  last  Sun- 
'day  he  had  taken  us  out  of  our  way,  up  the  creek, 
to  where  we  could  see  the  flag  at  the  Rhondda's 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  121 

masthea'd.  The  old  man  said  nothing,  but  well  we 
knew  he  was  thinking  of  how  the  square  of  blue 
silk,  with  Californian  emblem  worked  in  white, 
would  look  at  his  trim  little  Hilda's  fore-truck! 
This  flag  accompanied  the  Cup,  and  now  (if  only 
the  Yankee  and  his  hired  whalemen  were  safely  at 
sea)  we  had  hopes  of  seeing  it  at  our  masthead 
again. 

Tea  over — still  excited  talk  went  on.  Some  one 
recalled  the  last  time  we  had  overhauled  and 
passed  the  Rhondda's  gig. 

"It's  all  very  well  your  bucking  about  beating 
the  Rhondda,"  said  Gregson;  "but  don't  think 
we're  going  to  have  it  all  our  own  way!  Mebbe 
they  were  'playing  'possum'  when  we  came  by  that 
time!" 

"Maybe,"  said  Jones.  "There's  Peters  and  H. 
Dobson  in  her  crew.  Good  men !  Both  rowed  in 
the  Worcester  boat  that  left  the  Conways'  at  the 
start,  three  years  ago.  .  .  .  And  what  about  the 
Rickmers?  .  .  .  No,  no!  It  won't  'do  to  be  too 
cocksure!  .  .  .  Eh,  Takia?" 

Takia  was  our  cox'n,  a  small  wiry  Jap.  Noth- 
ing great  in  inches,  but  a  demon  for  good  steering 
and  timing  a  stroke.  He  was  serving  his  appren- 
ticeship with  us  and  had  been  a  year  in  the  Hilda. 
Brute  strength  was  not  one  of  his  points,  but  none 
was  keener  or  more  active  in  the  rigging  than  our 
little  Jap. 

He  smiled, — he  always  smiled, — he  found  it  the 


122  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

easiest  way  of  speaking  English.  "Oh,  yes,"  he 
said.  "Little  cocksu' — good!  Too  much  cocksu' 
— no  good !" 

We  laughe'd  at  the  wisdom  of  the  East. 

"Talk  about  being  cocky,"  said  Gregson;  "you 
should  hear  Captain  Schenke  bragging  about  the 
way  he  brought  the  Hedwig  Rickmers  out.  I 
heard  'em  and  the  old  man  at  it  in  the  ship- 
chandler's  yesterday.  Hot !  .  .  .  Look  here,  you 
chaps!  I  don't  think  the  old  man  cares  so  much 
to  win  the  Cup  as  to  beat  Schenke!  The  big 
'squarehead'  is  always  ramming  it  down  Burke's 
throat  how  he  brought  his  barque  out  from  Liver- 
pool in  a  hundred  and  five  days,  while  the  Hilda 
took  ten  clays  more  on  her  last  run  out!" 

"That's  so,  I  guess,"  said  Jones.  (Jones  had 
the  Yankee  'touch.')  "Old  Burke  would  'dearly 
love  to  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel,  but  it'll  take  some 
rdoing.  They  say  that  Schenke  has  got  a  friend 
down  from  Sacramento — gym.-instructor  or  some- 
thing to  a  college  up  there.  He'll  be  training  the 
'Dutchy'  crew  like  blazes.  They'll  give  us  a  hot 
time,  I'll  bet!" 

Gregson  rose  to  go  on  cleck.  "Oh,  well,"  he 
said,  "it  won't  be  so  bad  if  the  James  Flint  only 
lifts  his  hook  by  Saturday.  Here's  one  bloomin' 
hombre  that  funks  racin'  a  fancy  whaler!  .  .  . 
An'  doesn't  care  who  knows  it,  either!" 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  123 

ii 

Thursday  passe'd — and  now  Friday — still  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  wind  changing,  and  the  big 
Yankee  barque  lay  quietly  at  anchor  over  by  the 
Presidio. 

When  the  butcher  came  off  from  the  shore  with 
the  day's  stores,  we  eagerly  questioned  him  about 
the  prospects  of  the  James  Flint's  sailing.  "Huh! 
I  guess  you're  nat  the  only  citizens  that  are  con- 
carned  'bout  that!"  he  said.  "They're  talkin' 
'bout  nuthin'  else  on  every  'lime-juicer'  in  the  Bay! 
.  .  .  An'  th'  Rickmers!  Gee!  Schenkie's  had 
his  eye  glued  ter  th'  long  telescope  ever  since  day- 
break, watchin'  fer  th'  Flint  heavin'  up  anchor!" 

The  butcher  had  varied  information  to  give  us. 
Now  it  was  that  Bully  Nathan  had  telegraphed  to 
his  New  York  owners  for  permission  to  remain  in 
port  over  Sunday.  Then  again  Bully  was  on  the 
point  of  being  dismissed  his  ship  for  not  taking 
full  advantage  of  a  puff  of  nor'-west  wind  that 
came  and  went  on  Thursday  night. 

.  .  .  The  Flint  was  short  of  men!  .  .  .  The 
'Flint  had  a  full  crew  aboard!  Rumours  and  ru- 
mours! "All  sorts  o'  talk,"  said  the  butcher; 
"but  I  know  this  fer  certain — she's  got  all  her 
stores  aboard.  Gee!  I  guess — she — has!  I  don't 
like  to  wish  nobody  no  harm,  boyes,  but  I  hope 
Bully  Nathan's  first  chop  '11  choke  him,  fer  th'  way 
he  done  me  over  the  beef!  .  .  Scorch  '5m!" 


124  'BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

In  the  forenoon  we  'dropped  the  gig  and  put  out 
for  practice.  Old  Burke  and  the  mate  came  after 
us  in  the  dinghy,  the  old  man  shouting  instruction 
and  encouragement  through  his  megaphone  as  we 
rowed  a  course  or  spurted  hard  for  a  furious  three 
minutes.  Others  were  out  on  the  same  ploy,  and 
the  backwaters  of  the  Bay  had  each  a  lash  of  oars 
to  stir  their  tideless  depths.  Near  us  the  green 
boat  of  the  Rickmers  thrashed  up  and  down  in 
style.  Time  and  again  we  drew  across — 'just  for 
a  friendly  spurt' — but  the  'Dutchies'  were  not  giv- 
ing anything  away,  and  sheered  off  as  we  ap- 
proached. We  spent  an  hour  or  more  at  practice 
and  were  rowing  leisurely  back  to  the  ship  when 
the  green  boat  overhauled  us,  then  slowed  to  her 
skipper's  orders. 

"How  you  vass,  Cabtin  Burke?"  said  Schenke, 
an  enormous  fair-headed  Teuton,  powerful-look- 
ing, but  run  sadly  to  fat  in  his  elder  years.  "You 
t'ink  you  get  a  chanst  now,  hem?  .  .  .  Now  de 
Yankee  is  goin'  avay!"  He  pointed  over  to  the 
Presidio,  where  the  Flint  lay  at  anchor.  We  fol- 
lowed the  line  of  his  fat  forefinger.  At  anchor, 
yes,  but  the  anchor  nearly  a-weigh.  Her  flags  were 
hoisted,  the  blue  peter  fluttering  at  the  fore,  and 
the  Active  tug  was  passing  a  hawser  aboard,  get- 
ting ready  to  tow  her  out.  The  smoke  from  the 
tugboat's  funnel  was  whirling  and  blowing  over 
the  low  forts  that  guard  the  Golden  Gates.  Good 
luck!  A  fine  nor'-west  breeze  had  come  that 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  125 

would  lift  our  'dreaded  rival  far  to  the:  southward 
on  her  way  round  Cape  Horn! 

Schenke  saw  the  pleased  look  with  which  old 
Burke  regarded  the  Yankee's  preparations  for  de- 
parture. 

"Good  bizness,  eh?"  he  said.  "You  t'ink  you 
fly  de  flack  on  de  Hilda  nex'  Sonndag,  Cabtin? 
Veil !  Ah  wish  you  goot  look,  but  you  dond't  got 
it  all  de  same!" 

"Oh,  well,  Captain  Schenke,  we  can  but  thry," 
said  the  old  man.  "We  can  but  thry,  sorr!  .  .  . 
Shure,  she's  a  foine  boat — that  o'  yours.  .  .  .  An' 
likely-looking  lads,  too!"  No  one  could  but  ad- 
mire the  well-set  figures  of  the  German  crew  as 
they  stroked  easily  beside  us. 

"Schweinehuriden,"  said  Schenke  brutally.  We 
noticed  more  than  one  stolid  face  darkling  as  they 
glanced  aside.  Schenke  had  the  name  of  a  'hard 
case.'  "Schweinehunden,"  he  said  again.  "Dey 
dond't  like  de  hard  vork,  Cabtin.  .  .  .  Dey  Hond't 
like  it — but  ve  takes  der  Coop,  all  de  same !  Dey 
pulls  goot  und  strong,  oder" — he  rasped  a  short 
sentence  in  rapid  Low  German — "Shermans  dond't 
be  beat  by  no  durn  lime-juicer,  nein!" 

Old  Burke  grinned.  "Cocky  as  ever,  Captain 
Schenke!  Bedad  now,  since  ye  had  the  luck  of 
ye're  last  passage  there's  no  limit  to  ye!" 

"Luck!     Luck!    Alvays  de  luck  mit  you,  Cab- 
tin!" 
-"An'  whatt  ilse?  .  .  .  Shure,  if  I  hadn't  struck 


126  'BROKEN  STOWAGE', 

a  bilt  of  calms  an'  had  more  than  me  share  of  head 
winds  off  the  Horn,  I'd  have  given  ye  a  day  or  two 
mesilfP' 

"Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Das  1st  gut!"  The  green 
boat  rocked  with  Schenke's  merriment.  He  laughed 
from  his  feet  up — every  inch  of  him  shook  with 
emotion.  "Ho!  Ho!  Hoo!  Das  ist  ganz  gut. 
You  t'ink  you  beat  de  Hedwig  Rickmers  too,  Cab- 
tin?  You  beat  'm  mit  dot  putty  leetle  barque? 
You  beat  'm  mit  de  Hilda,  nichtivahr?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  our  old  man.  "I  don't  exactly 
say  I  can  beat  the  Rickmers,  but  if  I  had  the  luck 
o'  winds  that  ye  had,  bedad,  I'd  crack  th'  Hilda 
out  in  a  hundred  an'  five  days  too !" 

"Now,  dot  is  not  drue,  Cabtin !  Aber  ganz  und. 
gar  nicht!  You  know  you  haf  bedder  look  von 
de  vind  as  Ah  got.  Ah  sail  mein  sheep!  Ah 
dond't  vait  for  de  fair  winds  nor  not'ings!" 

"No,"  said  Burke,  "but  ye  get  'em,  all  the  same. 
Everybody  knows  ye've  th'  divil's  own  luck, 
Schenke!" 

"Und  so  you  vas!  Look  now,  Cabtin  Burke. 
You  t'ink  you  got  so  fast  a  sheep  as  mein,  eh? 
Veil!  Ah  gif  you  a  chanst  to  make  money.  Ah 
bett  you  feefty  dollars  to  tventig,  Ah  take  mein 
sheep  home  quicker  as  you  vass!" 

"Done  wit'  ye,"  said  stout  old  'Paddy'  Burke, 
though  well  he  knew  the  big  German  barque  could 
sail  round  the  little  Hilda.  "Fifty  dollars  to 
twenty,  Captain  Schenke,  an'  moind  ye've  said  it!" 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  127 

The  green  boat  sheered  off  and  forge'd  ahead, 
Schenke  laughing  and  waving  his  hand  derisively. 
When  they  had  pulled  out  of  earshot,  the  old  man 
turned  ruefully  to  the  mate:  "Five  pounds  clean 
t'rown  away,  mister!  Foine  I  know  the  Rickmers 
can  baate  us,  but  I  wasn't  goin'  t'  let  that  ould 
'squarehead'  have  it  all  his  own  way!  Divil  th' 
fear!" 

We  swung  under  the  Hilda's  stern  and  hooked 
on  to  the  gangway.  The  old  man  stepped  out, 
climbed  a  pace  or  two,  then  came  back. 

"Look  ye  here,  byes,"  he  said,  "I'll  give  ye 
foive  dollars  a  man — an'  a  day's  'liberty'  t'  spind 
it — if  ye  only  baate  th'  'Dutchmen.'  .  .  .  Let  th* 
Cup  go  where  it  will!'" 

Ill 

The  Bay  of  San  Francisco  is  certainly  one  of  the 
finest  natural  harbours  in  the  world,  let  Sydney 
and  Rio  and  Falmouth  all  contest  the  claim.  Land- 
locked to  every  wind  that  blows,  with  only  a  nar- 
row channel  open  to  the  sea,  the  navies  of  the 
world  could  lie  peacefully  together  in  its  sheltered 
waters.  The  coast  that  environs  the  harbour 
abounds  in  natural  beauties,  but  of  all  the  wooded 
creeks — fair  stretches  of  undulating  downs — or 
stately  curves  of  winding  river,  none  surpasses  the; 
little  bay  formed  by  the  turn  of  Benita,  the  north- 
ern postern  of  the  Golden  Gates.  Here  is  the  little 


128  'BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

township  of  Saucilito,  with  its  pretty  white  houses 
nestling  among  the  'dark  green  of  the  deeply 
wooded  slopes.  In  the  bay  there  is  good  anchor- 
age for  a  limited  number  of  vessels,  and  fortunate 
were  they  who  manned  the  tall  ships  that  lay  there, 
swinging  ebb  and  flood,  waiting  for  a  burthen  of. 
golden  grain. 

On  Saturday  the  little  bay  was  crowded  by  a 
muster  of  varied  craft.  The  ships  at.anchor  were 
'dressed'  to  the  mastheads  with  gaily-coloured 
flags.  Huge  ferry-boats  passed  slowly  up  and 
idown,  their  tiers  of  decks  crowded  with  sightseers. 
Tug-boats  and  launches  darted  about,  clearing  the 
course,  or  convoying  racing  boats  to  the  starting 
lines.  Ships'  boats  of  all  kinds  were  massed  to- 
gether close  inshore :  gigs  and  pinnaces,  lean  whale- 
boats,  squat  dinghys,  even  high-sided  ocean  life- 
boats with  their  sombre  broad  belts  of  ribbed  cork. 
A  gay  scene  of  colour  and  animation.  A  fine  turn- 
out to  see  the  fortune  of  the  Merchants'  Cup ! 

At  two  the  Regatta  began.  A  race  for  long- 
shore craft  showed  that  the  boarding-house 
'crimps'  were  as  skilful  at  boatman's  work  as  at 
inducing  sailormen  to  desert  their  ships.  Then 
two  out-riggers  flashed  by,  contesting  a  heat  for 
a  College  race.  We  in  the  Hilda's  gig  lay  handily 
at  the  starting  line  and  soon  were  called  out. 
There  were  nine  entries  for  the  Cup,  and  the 
judges  had  decided  to  run  three  heats.  We  were; 
drawn  in  the  first,  and,  together  with  the  Ardlea's 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  129 

and  Compton's  gigs,  went  out  to  be  inspected.  The 
boats  had  to  race  in  sea-service  conditions,  no  light- 
ening was  allowed.  At  the  challenge  of  the  judges 
we  showed  our  gear.  "Spare  oar — right!  Row- 
locks— right!  Sea-anchor — right!  Bottom  boards 
and  stern  grating — right.  Painter,  ten  fathoms; 
hemp.  ...  A  bit  short  there,  Compton!  Eh? 
.  .  .  Oh — all  right,"  said  the  official,  and  we 
manoeuvred  into  position,  our  sterns  held  in  by 
the  guard-boats.  Some  of  the  ships'  captains  had 
engaged  a  steam-launch  to  follow  the  heats,  and 
old  Burke  was  there  with  his  trumpet,  shouting 
iencouragement  already. 

"Air  yew  ready?" 

A  pause:  then,  pistol  shot!  We  struck  water 
and  laid  out!  Our  task  was  not  difficult.  The 
Wrdlea's  gig  was  broad-bowed  and  heavy;  they 
had  no  chance;  but  the  Compton's  gave  us  a  stiff 
pull  to  more  than  midway.  Had  they  been  like 
us,  three  months  at  boat-work,  we  had  not  pulled 
so  easily  up  to  the  mark,  but  their  ship  was  just  in 
from  Liverpool,  and  they  were  in  poor  condition 
for  a  mile  and  a  half  at  pressure.  We  won  easily, 
and  scarce  had  cheered  the.  losers  before  the  launch 
came  fussing  up. 

"Come  aboard,  Takia,"  shouted  old  Burke. 
"Ye  come  down  wit'  me  an'  see  what  shape  the 
German  makes.  He's  drawn  wit'  th'  Rhond'da  in 
this  heat!" 

Takia  bundled  aboard  the  launch  and  we  hauled 


i3o  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

inshore  to  watch  the  race.  There  was  a  delay  at 
the  start.  Schenke,  'nichts  verstehen,'  as  he  said, 
was  for  sending  his  boat  away  without  a  painter 
or  spare  gear.  He  was  pulled  up  by  the  judges, 
and  had  to  borrow. 

Now  they  were  ready.  The  Rickmers  outside, 
Rhondda  in  the  middle  berth,  and  the  neat  little 
Slieve  Donard  inshore.  At  the  start  the  Rhond- 
das  came  fair  away  from  the  German  boat,  but 
even  at  the  distance  we  could  see  that  the  'Dutch- 
men' were  well  in  hand.  At  midway  the  Rhondda 
was  leading  by  a  length,  still  going  strong,  but  they 
had  shot  their  bolt,  and  the  green  boat  was  surely 
pulling  up.  The  Slieve  Donard,  after  an  unsteady 
course,  had  given  up.  Soon  we  could  hear  old 
Schenke  roaring  oaths  and  orders,  as  his  launch 
came  flying  on  in  the  wake  of  the  speeding  boats. 

The  Germans  spurted. 

We  yelled  encouragement  to  the  Rhonddas. 
"Give 'em  beans,  old  sons!  .  .  ." 

"Rhondda!  Rhondda!  .  .  .  Shake  'er  up!" 
Gallantly  the  white  boat  strove  to  keep  her  place, 
but  the  greens  were  too  strong.  With  a  rush,  they 
took  the  lead  and  held  it  to  the  finish,  though  two 
lengths  from  the  line  their  stroke  faltered,  the 
swing  was  gone,  and  they  were  dabbling  feebly 
when  the  shot  rang  out. 

"A  grand  race,"  said  every  one  around.  "A 
grand  race" — but  old  Burke  had  something  to  say 
when  he  steamed  up>  to  put  our  cox'n  among  us. 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  131 

"Byes,  byes,"  he  said,  "if  there  had  been  twinty 
yards  more  the  Rhoridda  would  have  won.  Now 
,d'ye  moind,  Takia,  ye  'divil  .  .  .  d'ye  moind! 
Keep  th'  byes  in  hand  till  I  give  ye  th'  wurrd !  .  .  . 
An'  whin  ye  get  th'  wurrd,  byes!  .  .  .  Oh,  Saints! 
Shake  her  up  when  ye  get  th'  wurrd!" 

The  third  heat  was  closely  contested.  All  three; 
boats,  two  Liverpool  barques  and  a  Nova  Scotia- 
man,  came  on  steadily  together.  A  clean  race, 
rowed  from  start  to  finish,  and  the  Tuebrook  win- 
ning by  a  short  length. 

The  afternoon  was  well  spent  when  we  stripped 
for  the  final,  and  took  up  our  positions  on  the  line. 
How  big  and  muscular  the  Germans  looked! 
How  well  the  green  boat  sat  the  water!  With 
what  inward  quakings  we  noted  the  clean  fine  lines 
of  stem  and  stern !  ...  Of  the  Tuebrook  we  had 
no  fear.  We  knew  they  could  never  stand  the 
pace  the  Germans  would  set.  Could  we? 

Old  Burke,  though  in  a  fever  of  excitement 
when  we  came  to  the  line,  had  little  to  say.  "Keep 
the  byes  in  hand,  Takia — till  ye  get  th'  wurrd," 
was  all  he  muttered.  We  swung  our  oar-blades 
forward. 

"Ready?"    The  starter  challenged  us. 

Suddenly  Takia  yelped!  We  struck  an'd  lay 
back  as  the  shot  rang  out!  A  stroke  gained! 
Takia  had  taken  the  flash;  the  others  the  report! 

The  Jap's  clever  start  gave  us  confidence  and  a 
lead.  Big  Jones  at  stroke  worked  us  up  to  better 


132  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

the  advantage.  The  green  boat  sheered  a  little, 
then  steadied  and  came  on,  keeping  to  us,  though 
nearly  a  length  astern.  The  Tuebrook  had  made 
a  bad  start,  but  was  thrashing  away  pluckily  in 
the  rear. 

So  we  hammered  at  it  for  a  third  of  the  course, 
when  Takia  took  charge.  Since  his  famous  start 
he  had  left  us  to  take  stroke  as  Jones  pressed  us, 
but  now  he  saw  signs  of  the  waver  that  comes  after 
the  first  furious  burst — shifting  grip  or  change  of 
foothold. 

'"Trok/—'trok/—'trok/"  he  muttered,  and 
steadied  the  pace.  "'Troke! — 'troke! — 'troke!" 
in  monotone,  good  for  soothing  tension. 

Past  midway  the  green  boat  came  away.  The 
ring  of  the  Germans'  rowlocks  rose  to  treble  pitch. 
Slowly  they  drew  up,  working  at  top  speed.  Now 
they  were  level — level!  and  Takia  still  droning 
"'trokef — '  troke  f — 'troke!" — as  if  the  lead  was 
ours! 

Wild  outcry  came  from  the  crowd  as  the  green 
boat  forged  ahead!  Deep  roars  from  Schenke 
somewhere  in  the  rear!  Now,  labouring  still  to 
Takia's  'troke — 'troke/  we  had  the  foam  of  the 
German's  stern  wash  at  our  blades!  "Come 
away,  Hilda's!"  .  .  .  "Shake  her  up,  there!" 
.  .  .  "Hilda-h!  Hilda-h/"— Takia  took  no  out- 
ward heed  of  the  cries.  He  was  staring  stolidly 
ahead,  ben'ding  to  the  pulse  of  the  boat.  No  out- 
ward heed — but  'troke! — 'troke!  came  faster 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  133 

from  his  lips.  We  strained,  almost  holding  the 
Germans'  ensign  at  level  with  our  bow  pennant. 

Loud  over  the  wild  yells  of  the  crowd  we  heard 
the  voice  we  knew — old  Burke's  bull-roar:  "Let 
'er  rip,  Taki'f  Let  'er  rip,  by  el" 

Takia's  eyes  gleamed  as  he  sped  us  up — up — 
up!  'Troke  became  a  yelp  like  a  wounded  dog's. 
He  crouched,  standing,  in  the  sternsheets,  and 
lashed  us  up  to  a  furious  thrash  of  oars!  Still 
quicker!  .  .  .  The  eyes  of  him  glared  at  each  of 
us,  as  if  daring  us  to  fail!  The  yelp  became  a 
scream  as  we  drew  level — the  Germans  still  at  top 
speed.  "Up!  Up!  Up!"  yells  Takia,  little  yel- 
low devil  with  a  white  froth  at  his  lips!  "Up! 
Up!  Up!"  swaying  unsteadily  to  meet  the  furious 
urging. 

The  ring  of  the  German  rowlocks  'deepens — 
deepens — we  see  the  green  bow  at  our  blades 
again.  Her  number  two  falters — jars — recovers 
again — and  pulls  stubbornly  on.  Their  'shot'  is 
fired !  They  can  do  no  more !  Done ! 

And  so  are  we!  Takia  drops  the  yoke  ropes 
and  leans  forward  on  the  gunwale!  Oars  jar  to- 
gether! Big  Jones  bends  forward  with  his  mouth 
wide — wide !  Done ! 

But  not  before  a  hush — a  solitary  pistol  shot — 
then  roar  of  voices  and  shrilling  of  steamer  syrens 
tell  us  that  the  Cup  is  ours  I 


134  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

IV 

A  month  later  there  was  a  stir  in  the  western 
seaports.  No  longer  the  ships  lay  swinging  idly 
at  their  moorings.  The  harvest  of  grain  was 
ready  for  the  carriers,  and  every  day  sail  was 
spread  to  the  free  wind  outside  the  Golden  Gates, 
and  laden  ships  went  speeding  on  their  homeward 
voyages.  The  days  of  boat-races  and  pleasant 
time-passing  harbour  jobs  were  gone;  it  was  now 
work — work — to  get  the  ship  ready  for  her  bur- 
den, and,  swaying  the  great  sails  aloft,  to  rig  har- 
ness for  the  power  that  was  to  bear  us  home. 
From  early  morning  till  late  evening  we  were  kept 
hard  at  it;  for  Captain  Burke  and  the  mate  were 
as  keen  on  getting  the  Hilda  to  sea  after  her  long 
stay  in  port  as  they  were  on  jockeying  us  up  to 
win  the  Cup.  Often,  when  we  turned  to  in  the 
morning,  we  would  find  a  new  shipmate  ready  to 
bear  a  hand  with  us.  The  old  man  believed  in 
picking  up  a  likely  man  when  he  offered.  Long 
[experience  of  Pacific  ports  had  taught  him  how 
difficult  it  is  to  get  a  crew  at  the  last  moment. 

So,  when  at  length  the  cargo  was  stowed,  we 
were  quite  ready  to  go  to  sea,  while  many  others — 
the  Hedwig  Rickmers  among  them — were  waiting 
for  men. 

On  the  day  before  sailing  a  number  of  the  ship 
captains  were  gathered  together  in  the  chandler's 
store,  talking  of  freights  and  passages,  and  specu- 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  135 

lating  on  the  runs  they  hoped  to  make.  Burke  and 
Schenke  were  the  loudest  talkers,  for  we  were  both 
bound  to  Falmouth  'for  orders,'  and  the  Rickmers 
would  probably  sail  three  days  after  we  had  gone. 

uVat  'bout  dot  bett  you  make  mit  me,  Cabtin?" 
said  Schenke.  "Dot  iss  all  recht,  no?" 

"Oh,  yess,"  answered  the  old  man,  but  without 
enthusiasm.  "That  stands." 

"Hoo !  Hoo !  Hoo !  Tventig  dollars  to  feefty 
— dot  you  goes  home  quicker  as  me,  no?"  Schenke 
turned  to  the  other  men.  "Vat  you  trinks,  yentle- 
men?  Ah  tink  Ah  sbend  der  tventig  dollars  now 
— so  sure  Ah  vass." 

The  others  laughed.  "Man,  man,"  said  Find- 
layson  of  the  Rhondda.  "You  don't  tell  me 
Burke's  been  fool  enough  to  take  that  bet.  Hoo ! 
You  haven't  the  ghost  of  a  chance,  Burke." 

"Och,  ye  never  know,"  said  the  now  doleful 
sportsman.  "Ye  never  know  ye'er  luck." 

"Look  here,  Cabtin,"  said  Schenke  (good- 
humoured  by  the  unspoken  tribute  to  his  vessel's 
sailing  powers) — "Ah  gif  you  a  chanst.  Ah  make 
de  bett  dis  vay — look.  Ve  goes  to  Falmouth — you 
und  me,  hem?  Now,  de  first  who  comes  on  de 
shore  vins  de  money.  Dot  vill  gif  you  t'ree  days' 
start,  no?" 

"That's  more  like  it,"  said  the  other  captains. 
"I  wish  you  luck,  Burke,"  said  Findlayson.  "Good 
luck — you'll  need  it  too — if  you  are  to  be  home 
before  the  big  German." 


136  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

So  the  bet  was  made. 

At  daybreak  next  morning  we  put  out  to  sea. 
The  good  luck  that  the  Rhoridda  wished  us  came 
our  way  from  the  very  first.  When  the  tug  left 
us  we  set  sail  to  a  fine  fair  wind,  and  soon  were 
bowling  along  in  style.  We  found  the  nor'-east 
Trades  with  little  seeking;  strong  Trades,  too,  that 
lifted  us  to  the  Line  almost  before  the  harbour 
dust  was  blown  from  our  masts  and  spars.  There 
calms  fell  on  us  for  a  few  days,  but  we  drifted 
south  in  the  right  current,  and  in  less  than  forty 
days  had  run  into  the  'westerlies'  and  were  bearing 
away  for  the  Horn. 

Old  Burke  was  'cracking  on'  for  all  the  Hilda 
could  carry  canvas.  Every  morning  when  he  came 
on  deck  the  first  question  to  the  mate  would  be: 
"Any  ships  in  sight,  mister?"  .  .  .  "Any  ships 
astern,"  he  meant,  for  his  first  glance  was  always 
to  where  the  big  green  four-master  might  be  ex- 
pected to  heave  in  sight.  Then,  when  nothing  was 
reported,  he  would  begin  his  day-long  strut  up  and 
down  the  poop,  whistling  "Garryowen"  and  rub- 
bing his  hands. 

Nor  was  the  joy  at  our  good  progress  his  alone. 
We  in  the  half-deck  knew  of  the  bet,  and  were 
keen  that  the  ship  which  carried  the  Merchants' 
Cup  should  not  be  overhauled  by  the  runner-up ! 
We  had  made  a  fetish  of  the  trophy  so  hardly 
won.  The  Cup  itself  was  safely  stowed  in  the 
ship's  strong  chest,  but  the  old  man  had  let  us  have 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  137 

custody  of  the  flag.  Big  Jones  had  particular 
charge  of  it;  and  it  had  been  a  custom  while  in 
'Frisco  to  exhibit  it  on  the  Saturday  nights  to  ad- 
miring and  envious  friends  from  other  ships.  This 
custom  we  continued  when  at  sea.  True,  there 
were  no  visitors  to  set  us  up  and  swear  what  lusty 
chaps  we  were,  but  we  could  frank  one  another 
and  say,  "If  you  hadn't  done  this  or  that,  we  would 
never  have  won  the  race." 

On  a  breezy  Saturday  evening  we  were  busy  at 
these  rites.  The  Hilda  was  doing  well  before  a 
steady  nor'-west  wind,  but  the  weather — though 
nothing  misty — was  dark  as  a  pall.  Thick  clouds 
overcast  the  sky,  and  there  seemed  no  dividing 
line  between  the  darkling  sea  and  the  windy  banks 
that  shrouded  the  horizon.  A  dirty  night  was  in 
prospect;  the  weather  would  thicken  later;  but  that 
made  the  modest  comforts  of  the  half-deck  seem 
more  inviting  by  comparison;  and  we  came  to- 
gether for  our  weekly  'sing-song' — all  but  Greg- 
son,  whose  turn  it  was  to  stand  the  look-out  on 
the  fo'c'sle-head. 

The  flag  was  brought  out  and  hung  up — Jones 
standing  by  to  see  that  no  pipe-lights  were  brought 
near — and  we  ranted  at  'Ye  Mariners  of  England' 
till  the  mate  sent  word  that  further  din  would 
mean  a  'work-up'  job  for  all  of  us. 

Little  we  thought  that  we  mariners  would  soon 
be  facing  dangers  as  great  as  any  we  so  glibly  sang 
about.  Even  as  we  sang,  the  Hilda  was  speeding 


i38  *  BROKEN  STOWAGE  ' 

on  a  fatal  course!  Across  her  track  the  almost 
submerged  hull  of  a  derelict  lay  drifting.  Black 
night  veiled  the  danger  from  the  keenest  eyes. 

A  frenzied  order  from  the  poop  put  a  stun- 
ning period  to  our  merriment.  "Helm  up,  f  r 
God's  sake!  .  .  .  Up!— oh  Godl—Up!  Up!" 
A  furious  impact  dashed  us  to  the  deck.  Stagger- 
ing, bruised,  and  bleeding,  we  struggled  to  our 
feet.  Outside  the  yells  of  fear-stricken  men 
mingled  with  hoarse  orders,  the  crash  of  spars 
hurtling  from  aloft  vied  with  the  thunder  of  can- 
vas, as  the  doomed  barque  swung  round  broadside 
to  the  wind  and  sea. 

Even  in  that  dread  moment  Jones  had  heed  of 
his  precious  flag.  As  we  flew  to  the  door,  he  tore 
the  flag  down,  stuffing  it  in  his  jumper  as  he  joined 
us  at  the  boats. 

There  was  no  time  to  hoist  out  the  life-boats — 
it  was  pinnace  and  gig  or  nothing.  Already  the 
bows  were  low  in  the  water.  "She  goes.  She 
goes!"  yelled  some  one.  "Oh,  Christ!  She's  go- 
ing!" 

We  bore  frantically  on  the  tackles  that  linked 
the  gig,  swung  her  out,  and  lowered  by  the  run; 
the  mate  had  the  pinnace  in  the  water,  men  were 
swarming  into  her.  As  the  gig  struck  water,  the 
barque  heeled  to  the  rail  awash.  We  crowded  in, 
old  Burke  the  last  to  leave  her,  and  pushed  off. 
Our  once  stately  Hilda  reeled  in  a  swirl  of  broken 
water,  and  the  deep  sea  took  her! 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  139 

Sailor  work !  No  more  than  ten  minutes  be- 
tween 'Ye  Mariners'  and  the  foundering  of  our 
barque! 

We  lay  awhile  with  hearts  too  'full  for  words ; 
then  the  pinnace  drew  near,  and  the  mate  called 
the  men.  All  there  but  one!  'Gregson?'  .  .  . 
No  Gregson!  The  bosun  knew.  He  had  seen 
what  was  Gregson  lying  still  under  the  wreck  of 
the  topmost  spars. 

The  captain  and  mate  conferred  long  together. 
We  had  no  sail  in  the  gig,  but  the  larger  boat  was 
fully  equipped.  "It's  the  only  chance,  mister," 
said  Burke  at  last.  "No  food — no  water!  We 
can't  hold  out  for  long.  Get  sail  on  your  boat  and 
stand  an  hour  or  two  to  the  east'ard.  Ye  may  fall 
in  with  a  ship;  she  w-was  right  in  th'  track  whin 
she  s-struck.  We  can  but  lie  to  in  th'  gig  an'  pray 
that  a  ship  comes  by." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir."  They  stepped  the  mast  and 
hoisted  sail.  "Good-bye  all;  God  bless  ye,  cap- 
tain," they  said  as  the  canvas  swelled.  "Keep 
heart !"  For  a  time  we  heard  their  voices  shouting 
us  Godspeed — then  silence  came  I 

V 

Daybreak! 

Thank  God  the  bitter  night  was  past !  Out  of 
the  east  the  long-looked-for  light  grew  on  us,  as 
we  lay  to  sea-anchor,  lurching  unsteadily  in  the 
teeth  of  wind  and  driving  rain.  At  the  first  grey 


140  'BROKEN  STOWAGE  * 

break  we  scanned  the  now  misty  horizon.  There 
was  no  sign  of  the  pinnace;  no  God-sent  sail  in  all 
the  dreary  round! 

We  crouched  on  the  bottom  boards  of  the  little 
gig  and  gave  way  to  gloomy  thoughts.  What  else 
could  be  when  we  were  alone  and  adrift  on  the 
broad  Pacific,  without  food  or  water,  in  a  tiny  gig 
already  perilously  deep  with  the  burden  of  eight  of 
us?  What  a  difference  to  the  gay  day  when  we 
manned  the  same  little  boat  and  set  out  in  pride  to 
the  contest!  Here  was  the  same  spare  oar  that* 
we  held  up  to  the  judges — the  long  oar  that  Jones 
was  now  swaying  over  the  stern,  keeping  her  head 
to  the  wind  and  sea !  Out  there  in  the  tumbling 
water  the  sea-anchor  held  its  place;  the  ten 
fathoms  of  good  hemp  'painter'  was  straining  at 
the  bows! 

The  same  boat!  The  same  gear!  The  same 
crew,  but  how  different!  A  crew  of  bent  heads 
and  wearied  limbs !  Listless-eyed,  despairing !  A 
ghastly  crew,  with  black  care  riding  in  the  heaving 
boat  with  us! 

Poor  old  Burke  had  hardly  spoken  since  his  last 
order  to  the  mate  to  sail  the  pinnace  to  the  east  in 
search  of  help.  When  anything  was  put  to  him, 
he  would  say,  "Aye,  aye,  b'ye,"  and  take  no 
further  heed.  He  was  utterly  crushed  by  the  dis- 
aster that  had  come  so  suddenly  on  the  heels  of  his 
'good  luck.'  He  sat  staring  stonily  ahead,  deaf  to 
our  hopes  and  fears. 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  141 

Water  we  had  in  plenty  as  the  day  wore  on. 
The  rain-soaked  clothes  of  us  were  sufficient  for 
the  time,  but  soon  hunger  came  and  added  a  phys- 
ical pain  to  the  torture  of  our  doubt.  Again  and 
again  we  stood  up  on  the  reeling  thwarts  and 
looked  wildly  around  the  sea-line.  No  pinnace — 
no  ship — nothing !  Nothing,  only  sea  and  sky,  and 
circling  sea-birds  that  came  to  mock  at  our  misery 
with  their  plaintive  cries. 

A  bitter  night!  A  no  less  cruel  day!  Dark 
came  on  us  again,  chill  and  windy,  and  the  salt 
spray  cutting  at  us  like  a  whiplash. 

Boo-m-m! 

Big  Jones  stood  up  in  the  stern-sheets,  swaying 
unsteadily.  "D'ye  hear  anything  there?  .  .  . 
Like  a  gun?" 

A  gun?  Gun?  .  .  .  Nothing  new!  .  .  .  We 
had  been  hearing  guns,  seeing  sails — in  our  minds 
— all  the  day !  All  day  .  .  .  guns  .  .  .  and  sail ! 
Boom-m-m-m! 

"Gun!  Oh  God  ...  a  gun!  Capt'n,  a  gun, 
d'ye  hear!  Hay — Hay-H.  Out  oars,  there!  A 
gun!"  Hoarse  in  excitement  Jones  shook  the  old 
man  and  called  at  his  ear.  "Aye,  aye,  b'ye.  Aye, 
aye,"  said  the  broken  old  man,  seeming  without 
understanding. 

Jones  ceased  trying  to  rouse  him,  and,  running 
out  the  steering  oar,  called  on  us  to  haul  the  sea- 
anchor  aboard.  We  lay  to  our  oars,  listening  for 
a  further  gunfire. 


i42  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

Whooo-o.  .  .  .  Boom-m-m. 

A  rocket !  They  were  looking  for  us  then !  The 
pinnace  must  have  been  picked  up!  A  cheer— 
what  a  cheer! — came  brokenly  from  our  lips;  and 
we  lashed  furiously  at  the  oars,  steering  to  where 
a  glare  in  the  mist  had  come  with  the  last  report. 

Roused  by  the  thrash  of  our  oars,  the  old  man 
sat  up.  "Whatt  now,  b'ye?  Whatt  now?" 

"Ship  firin'  rockets,  sir,"  said  Jones.  "Rockets 
...  no  mistake."  As  he  spoke,  another  coloured 
streamer  went  flaming  through  the  eastern  sky. 
"Give  way,  there !  We'll  miss  her  if  she's  running 
south!  Give  way,  all!"  The  glare  of  the  rocket 
put  heart  into  our  broken  old  skipper.  "Steady 
now,  b'yes,"  he  said,  with  something  of  his  old 
enthusiasm. 

We  laboured  steadily  at  the  oars,  but  our 
strength  was  gone.  The  sea  too,  that  we  had 
thought  moderate  when  lying  to  sea-anchor,  came 
at  us  broadside  on  and  set  our  light  boat  to  a  furi- 
ous dance.  Wave  crests  broke  and  lashed  aboard, 
the  reeling  boat  was  soon  awash,  and  the  spare 
men  had  to  bale  frantically  to  keep  her  afloat.  But 
terror  of  the  ship  running  south  from  us  nerved 
our  weaned  arms,  and  we  kept  doggedly  swinging 
the  oars.  Soon  we  made  out  the  vessel's  sidelight 
— the  gleam  of  her  starboard  light,  that  showed 
that  she  was  hauled  to  the  wind,  not  running  south 
as  we  had  feared.  They  could  not  see  on  such  a 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  143 

night,  we  had  nothing  to  make  a  signal,  but  the 
faint  green  flame  gave  us  heart  in  our  distress! 

The  old  man,  himself  again,  was  now  steering, 
giving  us  Big  Jones  to  bear  at  the  oars.  As  we 
drew  on  we  made  out  the  loom  of  the  vessel's  sails 
— a  big  ship  under  topsails  only,  and  sailing  slowly 
to  the  west.  We  pulled  down  wind  to  cross  her 
course,  shouting  together  as  we  rowed.  Would 
they  never  hear?  .  .  .  Again!  .  .  .  Again! 

Suddenly  there  came  a  hail  from  the  ship,  a  roar 
of  orders,  rattle  of  blocks  and  gear,  the  yards 
swung  round  and  she  layed  up  in  the  wind,  while 
the  ghostly  glare  of  a  blue  light  lit  up  the  sea 
around. 

A  crowd  of  men  were  gathered  at  the  waist,  now 
shouting  and  cheering  as  we  laboured  painfully 
into  the  circle  of  vivid  light.  Among  them  a  big 
man  (huge  he  looked  in  that  uncanny  glare) 
roared  encouragement  in  hoarse  gutturals. 

Old  Schenke?    The  Hedwig  Rickmers? 

Aye — Schenke !  But  a  different  Schenke  to  the 
big,  blustering,  overbearing  'Square-head'  we  had 
known  in  'Frisco.  Schenke  as  kind  as  a  brother — 
a  brother  of  the  sea  indeed.  Big,  fat,  honest 
Schenke,  passing  his  huge  arm  through  that  of  our 
broken  old  skipper,  leading  him  aft  to  his  own  bed, 
and  silencing  his  faltering  story  by  words  of  cheer. 
"Ach,  du  lieber  Go//.  It  is  all  right,  no?  All 
right,  Cabtin,  now  you  come  on  board.  Ah  know 


144  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

all  'bout  it!  ...  Ah  pick  He  o'der  boat  up  in  de 
morning,  und  dey  tells  me.  You  come  af  mit  me, 
Cabtin.  .  .  .  Goot,  no?" 


"Ninety-six  days,  Schenke,  and  here  we  are  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Channel!"  Old  Burke  had  a 
note  of  regret  in  the  saying.  "Ninety-six  days! 
Shure,  this  ship  o'  yours  can  sail.  With  a  bit  o' 
luck,  now,  ye'll  be  in  Falmouth  under  the  hun- 
dred." 

"So.  If  de  vind  holds  goot.  Oh,  de  Hedwig 
Rickmers  is  a  goot  sheep,  no?  But  if  Ah  dond't 
get  de  crew  of  de  poor  leetle  Hilda  to  vork  mein 
sheep,  Ah  dond't  t'ink  ve  comes  home  so  quick  as 
hundert  days,  no?" 

"God  bless  us,  man.  Shure,  it's  the  least  they 
cud  do,  now.  An'  you  kaapin'  us  in  food  an'  drink 
an'  clothes,  bedad — all  the  time." 

"Vat  Ah  do,  Cabtin.    Ah  leaf  you  starfe,  no?" 

"Oh.  Some  men  would  have  put  into  the  Falk- 
lands  and  landed " 

"Und  spoil  a  goot  bassage,  eh?  'Ach  nein. 
More  better  to  go  on.  You  know  dese  men  Ah 
get  in  'Frisco  is  no  goot.  Dem  'hoodlums,'  dey 
dond't  know  de  sailorman  vork.  But  your  beoble 
is  all  recht,  eh!  Gott!  If  Ah  dond't  haf  dem 
here,  it  is  small  sail  ve  can  carry  on  de  sheep." 

"Oh,  now,  ye  just  say  that,  Schenke,  ye  just 


THE  MERCHANTS'  CUP  145 

say  that !  But  it's  glad  I  am  if  we're  any  use  t' 
ye." 

"Hundert  days  to  Falmouth,  eh?"  Schenke 
grinned  as  he  said  it.  "Vat  'bout  dot  bett  now, 
Cabtin?" 

"Oh  that,"  said  Burke  queerly.  "You  win,  of 
course.  I'm  not  quite  broke  yet,  Captain  Schenke. 
I'll  pay  the  twenty  dollars  all  right." 

"No,  no.  De  bett  is  not  von.  No?  De  bett 
vass — 'who  is  de  first  on  shore  come,'  hein?  Goot. 
Ven  de  sheep  comes  to  Falmouth  ve  goes  on  shore, 
you  und  me,  together.  Like  dis,  eh?"  He  seized 
Burke  by  the  arm  and  made  a  motion  that  they 
two  should  thus  step  out  together. 

Burke,  shamefaced,  said:  "Aye,  aye,  b'ye." 

"Ah  dond't  care  about  de  bett,"  continued  the 
big  German.  "De  bett  is  noting,  but,  look  here, 
Cabtin — Ah  tell  you  Ah  look  to  vin  dot  Mer- 
chants' Cup.  Gott!  Ah  vass  verricht  ven  your 
boys  come  in  first.  Ach  so!  Und  now  de  Cup  iss 
at  de  bottom  of  de  Pacific."  He  sighed  regret- 
fully. "Gott!  I  vant'  t'  be  de  first  Sherman  to 
vin  dot  Cup  too!" 

The  mate  of  the  Rickmers  came  on  the  poop 
and  said  something  to  his  captain.  Schenke  turned 
to  the  old  man  in  some  wonderment.  .  .  .  "Vat 
'dis  is,  eh?  My  mate  tell  me  dot  your  boys  is  want 
to  speak  mit  me.  Vat  it  is,  Cabtin?  No  troubles 
I  hope?" 

Burke  looked  as  surprised  as  the  other.     "Send 

s 


146  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

them  up,  Heinrich,"  he  said.  We,  the  crew  of  the 
Hilda's  gig,  filed  on  to  the  poop,  looking  as  hot 
and  uncomfortable  as  proper  sailorfolk  should  do 
when  they  come  on  a  deputation.  Jones  headed 
us,  and  he  carried  a  parcel  under  his  arm. 

"Captain  Schenke,"  he  said.  "We  are  all  here 
— the  crew  of  the  Hilda's  gig,  that  you  picked  up 
when — when — we  were  in  a  bad  way.  All  here 
but  poor  Gregson."  The  big  lad's  voice  broke  as 
he  spoke  of  his  lost  watchmate.  "An'  if  he  was 
here  he  would  want  t'  thank  ye  too  for  the  way 
you've  done  by  us.  I  can't  say  any  more,  Captain 
Schenke — but  we  want  you  to  take  a  small  present 
from  us — the  crew  of  the  Hilda's  gig."  He  held 
out  the  parcel. 

Only  half  understanding  the  lad's  broken  words, 
Schenke  took  the  parcel  and  opened  it.  "Ach 
Gott.  Lieber  Gott"  he  said,  and  turned  to  show 
the  gift  to  old  Burke.  Tears  stood  in  the  big 
'squarehead's'  eyes;  stood,  and  rolled  unchecked 
down  his  fat  cheeks.  Tears  of  pleasure!  Tears 
of  pity!  Stretched  between  his  hands  was  a 
weather-beaten  flag,  its  white  emblem  stained  and 
begrimed  by  sea-water! 

A  tattered  square  of  blue  silk — the  flag  of  the 
Merchants'  Cup  I 


XVIII 
BEHIND  THE  MAY 

the  broad  windy  floor  of  the  North  Sea 
gales  spring  up  without  a  warning  which 
landsmen  can  discern,  but  the  fishermen,  by  por- 
tents which  they  alone  can  understand — wisps,  it 
may  be,  of  stringy  clouds  banking  to  the  south- 
east, or  a  sickly  sun,  or  a  tide  out  of  order,  or  an 
unwonted  movement  among  the  fish — can  tell 
whether  wind  will  come  before  daybreak.  When 
the  chill,  grey  mist,  perhaps  the  most  familiar 
phenomenon  of  the  North  Sea,  comes  up  from  the 
south,  shutting  out  land  and  lights,  ships  and  sail, 
the  old  men  can  tell  if  a  gale  is  in  its  train;  and  on 
the  East  Coast,  where  the  harbours  are  bar  and 
tidal  and  impassable  in  a  breaking  sea,  their  de- 
cision must  be  prompt,  for  if  time  and  tide  are  not 
reckoned  with  in  running  for  shelter,  their  only 
safety  lies  in  riding  out  the  storm  to  leeward  of 
the  nets. 

There  are,  however,  one  or  two  places  acces- 
sible in  all  weathers,  where  shelter  may  be  had  in 
easterly  gales.  Inchkeith,  though  far  from  the 
fishing  grounds,  is  one,  and  a  few  acres  of  com- 
paratively calm  water  lie  to  leeward  of  May  Is- 

147 


i48  *  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

? 

lan'd,  'behind  the  May,'  as  the  fishermen  call  it. 
Even  by  full-powered  steam  vessels,  which  can 
usually  make  a  better  anchorage,  the  May  is  not 
despised,  for  it  offers  a  convenient  spot  where  they 
can  lie-to  until  the  fury  of  the  gale  has  spent  itself, 
and  they  can  proceed  on  their  voyage  in  safety. 

On  an  evening  in  November  in  a  gale  of  easterly 
wind  we  made  the  Tay  bar,  but  finding  a  tre- 
mendous sea  breaking  on  the  flats  and  the  leading 
lights  obscured  by  driving  mist  we  thought  it  pru- 
dent to  put  out  again  until  the  sea  on  the  bar  had 
gone  down.  With  the  weather  'thickening'  and 
threatening  snow,  we  had  no  liking  to  lose  our 
land-fall,  so  we  sounded  across  Fife  Ness  and  the 
Carrs  and  anchored  'close-to'  to  leeward  of  the 
May.  Few  vessels  as  yet  had  taken  advantage  of 
the  shelter,  for,  as  the  tide  was  high  and  the  wind 
north  of  east,  the  northern  harbours  were  still  ac- 
cessible. But  with  the  ebb  the  opportunity  passed, 
and  presently  the  vessels  which  had  happened  on 
the  falling  tide  were  groping  their  way  in  the  mist 
and  darkness  to  the  lee  of  the  friendly  rock,  the 
one  quiet  spot  amid  the  turbulence  and  tumult  of 
a  North  Sea  gale.  Hard  squalls  blew  on  with  a 
cold  bite  in  them  that  told  of  snow  and  a  wind  well 
north.  Ahead  of  us,  as  we  lay  with  cable  strained 
to  weight  of  wind,  the  lighthouse  flashed  its  beams 
at  timely  intervals,  and  the  raucous  wail  of  the 
syren  voiced  a  pregnant  warning — though  but  a 
weakling  whisper  in  the  fury  of  the  storm.  'High 


BEHIND  THE  MAY  149 

.  .  .  low.     High  .  .  .  low.'    Was  ;ever  a  warn- 
ing more  mournful  or  discordant? 

As  the  squalls  became  more  frequent  and  in- 
creased in  force  the  mist  gave  way  to  sleet,  and 
then  to  snow,  driving  in  large  light  flakes,  the  fore- 
runners of  a  heavy  fall.  Steam  trawlers  and  small 
coasting  craft  crept  out  of  the  pall  about  us  warily 
and  sounding  long  notes  on  their  steam  whistles, 
and  soon  what  had  been  empty  sea  behind  a  lonely 
rock  became  a  rendezvous  of  importance,  crowded 
by  ships  from  all  airts,  and,  even  in  the  mist  and 
'darkness,  presenting  in  animated  sight  and  sound  a 
spectacle  at  sea — riding  and  navigating  lights  now 
in  sight,  now  shut  in;  clatter  of  bells  and  hoot  of 
steam  whistles;  hiss  of  escaping  steam  and  clank 
of  cable  and  windlass.  Fishermen,  steam  and  sail, 
coasters,  and  North  Country  colliers,  a  topsail 
schooner  and  a  few  rough  cobles  from  the  Dunbar 
coast;  a  jumble  of  maritime  types  blown  together 
like  paper  in  odd  corners  of  a  city  street.  Lights 
studded  the  tiny  anchorage,  where  a  short  time  ago 
was  a  darkness,  broken  only  by  the  flashing  periods 
of  the  May  light.  Close  in  under  the  island,  where 
fishermen  were  mending  broken  trawls  or  nets,  the 
gleam  of  the  working  flares  lit  up  the  rugged  cliff, 
and  the  echo  of  their  cries  and  hails,  thrown  back 
by  the  land,  could  be  heard  faintly  in  the  lulling 
of  the  storm.  Most  of  the  fishers  kept  under 
weigh,  and  only  the  larger  vessels  anchored.  Near 
to  the  north  point  of  the  island,  where  the  water 


150  'BROKEN  STOWAGE 

was  smoothest  anH  the  shelter  best,  the  smaller 
craft  kept  elbowing  one  another  out  of  choice  po- 
sitions, and  the  rapidly-changing  lights,  red  to 
green  and  green  to  red,  showed  collision  to  be 
skilfully  averted. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  the  squalls 
became  less  frequent  and  the  snow  ceased.  The 
sky  cleared  in  parts,  and  a  dim  moon,  low  to  the 
eastward,  shed  a  faint  light  on  the  ships,  uncom- 
fortably berthed  together  within  the  small  shelter 
afforded  by  the  island.  Beyond,  huge  seas,  with 
the  sweep  of  the  leagues  of  the  German  Ocean  be- 
hind them,  thundered  'up  Firth'  to  where  Scotland 
stood,  gaunt  and  forbidding,  a  barrier  to  their 
advance.  In  the  clearing,  the  coast  lights  showed 
up  around  us;  St.  Abbs  and  Barnsness,  Fidra  and 
the  loom  of  the  Bass,  and  the  Carr  Lightship,  rid- 
ing out  the  storm  to  the  nor'ard,  cast  a  bright,  un- 
daunted beam.  Towards  daybreak  the  wind, 
which  till  now  had  blown  steady  from  the  nor'east, 
began  to  veer,  the  first  sign  of  the  breaking  of  the 
gale.  At  times  a  blast  from  the  south  end  of  the 
island  would  strike  us,  and  the  accompanying  seas 
would  rush  in  among  the  assembled  craft,  as  if  in 
triumph  at  finding  them  within  reach.  Inside  there 
was  no  weight  of  wind  to  back  them  up,  and  they 
spent  themselves  in  a  long  swell,  jostling  the 
smaller  craft  into  heaving  confusion. 

Faint  and  low,  scarce  pitched  above  the  tenor  of 
the  gale,  we  heard  a  sound  of  gunfire  to  the  nor'- 


BEHIND  THE  MAY  151 

arid.  Presently  it  was  repeated,  and  we  knew  a 
call  of  the  helpless  at  sea.  A  blaze  of  coloured  fire 
over  the  North  Carr  Lightship  showed  her  to  be 
throwing  rockets,  signals  for  the  lifeboat;  and  al- 
though we  could  see  nothing  of  the  wreck,  we 
judged  her  to  lie  between  the  lightship  and  Fife 
Ness.  A  squall  narrowed  the  northern  horizon 
and  shut  out  the  vessels  from  our  sight.  For  a 
time  we  heard  the  guns,  and  then,  listen  as  we 
might,  there  was  no  sound  from  the  nor'ard  but 
the  shriek  of  the  gale  and  cries  of  the  seabirds. 

Dawn  broke  and  showed  us  a  waste  of  tumbling, 
grey  seas  and  a  sickly  light  in  a  still  threatening 
sky.  The  lee  of  the  island  was  white  with  a  fleecy 
pall,  and  on  our  'decks  in  places  sheltered  from  the 
flying  spray  lay  snow.  A  change  indeed  for  us, 
so  lately  steaming  through  Indian  seas.  Now  and 
again  with  a  dull  booming  the  seas  would  break 
heavily  on  the  weather  side  of  the  island,  and  at 
times  the  spray  and  spindrift  even  reached  the 
decks  of  the  vessels  lying  behind  it.  With  daylight 
to  help  them,  some  of  the  ships  bore  away  'up 
Firth'  to  reach  their  ports,  and  only  the  fishers, 
whose  business  lay  to  seaward,  held  to  the  shelter. 
With  us,  who  were  waiting  for  water  on  the  Tay 
bar,  there  was  no  need  of  haste.  We  were  as  well 
'behind  the  May'  as  elsewhere. 

About  noon  we  saw  a  steam  trawler  bearing  in 
'from  the  nor'ard.  She  had  the  rags  of  an  ensign 
streaming  from  her  masthead,  and  we  were  glacf 


152  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

when  we  recognised  the  'Union'  up.  Evidently 
her  cause  was  another's,  and  we  watched  her  ap- 
proach with  interest.  Driving  into  the  seas,  hull 
in  the  hollow,  or  rising  to  show  a  dripping  keel, 
she  held  on  her  way,  and  reached  the  shelter  she 
was  seeking.  Her  decks  were  lumbered  with  ill- 
lashed  trawl  gear.  A  dinghy  boat,  stove  almost 
out  of  recognition,  lay  on  her  hatch  cover,  and 
near  it  crouched  a  crowd  of  seamen,  braced  to 
meet  the  sickening  lurches  of  the  vessel.  She  rode 
light  on  the  water  and  even  we,  'deep-seamen'  as 
we  were,  could  tell  she  was  not  long  out  of  port. 
She  came  close  to  us,  and  her  skipper  hailed  the 
'bridge'  in  the  homely  tongue  of  the  North.  He 
asked  if  we  were  for  Dundee,  and  our  answer 
assured  him.  He  had  taken  six  of  the  crew  off  a 
schooner,  he  said,  a  wreck  on  the  North  Carr  (the 
vessel  whose  guns  we  had  heard),  and  he  wished 
our  captain  to  take  them  off  his  hands,  as  he  was 
bound  out  to  the  'lang  forties'  when  the  weather 
cleared.  This  our  captain  agreed  to  do,  and  the 
skipper  gave  us  further  particulars.  A  crew  of 
nine,  he  thought,  and  three  gone  under.  He  could 
only  get  six  men  off  the  wreck.  ".  .  .  A  wheen 
furrin'  loons.  Johnny  Creepaws  or  Dutchmen, 
belike!" 

While  thus  engaged  his  keen  "eyes  caught  a  speck 
of  sail  to  the  nor'ard,  and  he  brought  a  battered 
pair  of  binoculars  to  bear  on  it.  We  watched  the 
speck  till  it  grew  to  a  blue-painted  boat  scudding 


BEHIND  THE  MAY  153 

under  a  close-reefed  fore-lug;  a  'National'  lifeboat 
making  for  the  May.  "They'll  be  th'  Aerbroath 
lauds,"  said  the  trawler's  skipper.  "Ah  doot  th' 
Bawrhull  boat  couldna'  win  oot  in  a  flood  an'  a  sea 
like  thon!"  He  hauled  down  the  flag  from  his 
masthead,  and  gave  a  blast  on  his  syren.  The 
lifeboat  paid  off  and  steered  towards  him.  "Ye'r 
ower  late,  lauds,  ower  late!  Ah've  gotten  sax 
haun's  oot  o'  her  afore  she  broke  upon  Balcolmie 
Brigs."  The  coxswain  of  the  lifeboat  waved  a 
hand  in  answer.  He  rounded  the  trawler's  stern, 
lowered  his  sail  and  mast,  and  his  boat  lay  a  gal- 
lant picture  on  the  heaving  sea  between  our  vessels. 
"Ah  wis  on  th'  Ae-bertay  Saun's  when  they  got 
word  frae  th'  May,"  he  said,  ...  "a  'geordie' 
ketch  on  th'  'Elbow!  Gi'e  us  word  o'  yer 
schooner,  an'  a'll  awa'  in,  an'  telegraph  frae  th' 
May!"  He  got  the  particulars,  and  blades  flashed 
as  his  boat  forced  her  away  through  the  water  to 
a  possible  landing  at  the  Altar  Stanes. 

By  skilful  manoeuvring  the  trawler  was  brought 
close  alongside,  and  the  distressed  seamen,  as  op- 
portunity offered,  clambered  on  to  our  deck;  but 
not  before  they  had  expressed,  in  pantomime  if 
words  failed,  their  gratitude  to  their  rescuers. 
The  Aberdeen  Samaritan  accepted  their  thanks  in 
a  shamefaced  and  embarrassed  way;  "  'at's  a' 
richt,  lauds,  'at's  a'  richt.  Ah  wis  jist  gaun  bye, 
like,  an'  ah  thocht  mebbe  yis  be  better  oot  o'  her!" 
Although  within  the  three-mile  limit,  our  captain 


iS4  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

thought  fit  to  arrange  a  little  matter  of  spirits  an'd 
tobacco  with  the  trawler.  These  were  being  passed 
aboard  to  a  burly  fisherman  when  a  sea  took  his 
vessel  on  the  bow,  causing  her  to  lurch  violently 
towards  us.  The  man,  encumbered  by  the  'lar- 
gesse,' jumped  to  put  a  fender  between  the  vessels' 
sides.  The  skipper,  the  man  whose  nerves  were 
steady  when  he  handled  his  boat  in  the  wash  of  the 
North  Carr,  was  appalled  at  his  recklessness.  A 
cry,  almost  a  scream,  came  from  his  dry  lips — 
"Jock,  ye  bluidy  loonie,  mind  thae  boattles !" 

The  refugees  were  Frenchmen.  One  was  a  very 
old  man,  too  old  for  sea-going,  and  he  seemed 
weary  and  disinclined  to  talk.  From  Rembault, 
Jean  Rembault,  M'sieu's,  Maitre,  we  learnt,  of 
their  hazard.  Their  vessel  was  the  Lis  de  Bre- 
tagne,  an  old  vessel  of  small  quickness;  but  a  stout, 
mind  you!  From  Iceland,  and  she  was  returning 
to  winter  quarters.  Au  nordt  she  started  a  butt; 
the  water  gained,  and  they  were  running  to  the 
Forth  for  shelter  when  she  struck.  A  terrible  af- 
faire, M'sieu's.  Three  men  were  drowned,  here 
Rembault  crossed  himself,  with  a  muttered  "Le. 
Bon  Dieu  regard!"  One  was  son  of  the  old  man, 
le  vieux,  Josef,  who  was  also,  we  learned,  owner 
of  the  boat,  but,  being  illiterate,  acted  as  mate. 
This  was  their  tale,  and  we  did  our  best  for  them, 
but  le  vieux,  Josef,  paying  no  attention  to  our  sym- 
pathies, sat  still  on  the  hatch-coaming,  with  his 
head  in  his  hands.  For  him,  the  world  held  noth- 


BEHIND  THE  MAY  155 

ing  more.  His  ship  was  gone,  and  his  tall  son  was 
the  sport  of  the  waters  that  surged  over  the  grim 
North  Carr. 

As  the  day  wore  on  the  wind  shifted  to  the  south 
and  the  seas  came  tumbling  into  the  anchorage — 
rough,  confused  seas,  revelling  in  the  spot  from 
which  they  had  been  so  long  withheld.  The  Isle 
of  May  no  longer  offered  a  bulwark  to  the  breeze, 
so  we  weighed  anchor  and  put  to  sea. 


XIX 
FINDLAY'S  SOUTH  PACIFIC 

CAILOR  folks  have  no  time  for  other  than  the 
*^  'tit-bits'  in  reading  matter.  Such  leisure  as 
they  have  at  sea  is  ruled  off  into  so  many  little 
tabloids  of  time,  each  definite  of  purpose,  and  he 
would  be  a  rash  man  who  would  encroach  on  the 
precious  sleeping  hours  of  the  'watch  below,'  how- 
ever interesting  a  book  might  be.  Novels  have  no 
standing  in  a  fo'c'sle  where  nine  men  out  of  ten 
can  spin  a  better  and  more  readily  appreciated 
yarn,  and  works  of  sober  interest  are  put  aside  as 
matters  beyond  the  understanding.  About  the 
docks,  there  are  few  bookshops.  Nautical  works 
and  text-books  are  sold  at  the  opticians',  the  daily 
papers  and  sixpenny  editions  may  be  had  at  a  near 
tobacconist's  and  sweet-shop.  For  other  literature 
there  is  no  great  demand,  certainly  not  enough  to 
keep  a  bookseller  in  a  reasonable  state  of  trade. 

There  are,  however,  numberless  odd  shops 
where  second-hand  goods  of  every  description  are 
on  sale.  Be  it  Bute  Road  or  The  Marsh,  Paradise 
Street  or  the  Broomielaw,  the  shops  are  the  same, 
identical  in  arrangement  and  effect.  Outwith  the 
'door  the  bundles  of  oilskin  clothing  and  army 

156 


FINDLAY'S   SOUTH    PACIFIC       157 

boots,  travelling  trunks,  and  tiers  of  sailors'  bed- 
ding stand  ready  to  the  hand,  and  the  shop  win- 
dows are  carefully  arranged  in  hopeless  disorder, 
a  sure  attraction  for  a  seaman's  roving  eye. 
Wedged  among  such  items  as  'knuckle-dusters,' 
melodeons,  meerschaum  pipes,  and  solid  alberts 
are  generally  to  be  found  a  few  derelict  volumes, 
the  flotsam  of  the  book  market,  that,  appropriately 
enough,  finds  its  way  to  the  water's  edge.  Tables 
of  tides  long  since  ebbed  into  the  womb  of  time, 
signal  books  of  discarded  codes,  sailing  directions 
for  far  waters,  old  charts,  stained  by  sea  and  serv- 
ice, books  of  cunning  seamanship,  of  the  high  art 
of  Navigation  (with  tables  of  distance  in  sea 
leagues). 

From  such  a  collection  of  odd  publications  I 
once  purchased  (for  a  shilling  and  twopence)  a 
Findlay's  South  Pacific.  It  was  an  old  and  obso- 
lete edition,  the  one  in  which  mariners  are  strongly 
advised  to  give  Banuloa  a  wide  berth  on  account 
of  the  treacherous  and  cannibalistic  practices  of  its 
inhabitants.  (Banuloa,  where  now  the  natives 
wear  Paris  hats  and  London  fashions,  and  say 
"pip-pip"  or  "it's  up  ter  yew,"  in  the  approved 
American  way!) 

The  book  was  in  fairly  good  condition,  save  that 
the  cockroaches  had  eaten  most  of  the  binding,  and 
the  covers  had  been  used  to  stand  medicine  bottles 
on.  Only  the  chapters  devoted  to  Cape  Horn,  the 
.West  Coast,  and  the  passage  to  Californian  ports 


158  .  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE  ' 

showed  signs  of  having  been  frequently  consulted; 
its  whilom  owner  must  have  been  in  the  'Frisco 
trade.  Just  where  Findlay  tells  of  the  fury  of 
Cape  Horn  gales,  was  the  mark  of  the  coffee  cup 
— some  hurried  sup  in  the  lulling  of  a  gale — and 
further  on,  where  he  gives  directions  for  working 
through  the  Straits  of  Lemaire,  were  marks  of 
sea-water — the  drippings  of  the  old  man's  sou'- 
wester when  he  came  below  anxious-eyed,  for  an- 
other look  at  the  description  of  Cape  Success  and 
the  Ship  Rocks — to  make  doubly  sure. 

Between  the  leaves  I  found  a  scrap  of  paper,  an 
untidy  half-sheet  with  a  few  jottings  of  laborious 
caligraphy  and  misspelt  words — an  account  of 
'slops'  supplied.  The  'slops'  were  clothes  and 
sea  outfits  that  the  captains  of  sailing  vessels  took 
to  sea  and  held  for  sale  to  such  members  of  the 
crew  as  had  'come  to  sea  same's  they  wos  a-goin' 
t'  church,'  and  had  found  their  wardrobe  inade- 
quate for  facing  the  weather.  Often  the  'slops' 
were  of  indifferent  quality,  and  being  sold  to  the 
crew  at  famous  'sea  prices,'  they  represented  a 
considerable  source  of  revenue  to  the  old-time  ship- 
master. For  one  thing,  he  had  no  bad  debts  to 
consider,  his  customers  being  under  his  immediate 
eye:  he  had  no  competition  to  fear — it  is  some 
little  distance  from  sixty,  South,  to  the  East  India 
Dock  Road.  The  'slop  chest'  was  a  needed  insti- 
tution in  the  long-voyage  sailing  ship,  where  so 
many  of  the  crew  were  shipped  in  a  state  of  drink 


FINDLAY'S    SOUTH    PACIFIC       159 

ancl  'destitution.  It  met  their  wants — at  'sea 
price' !  'Sea  price'  was  written  large  over  this 
untidy  scrap  of  paper  that  I  found  irt  the  old  book. 

'To  'J.  Jons  'A.B.,  one  suit  olskins,  £i.'  I  could 
fancy  J.  Jones  standing,  cap  in  hand  and  ill  at 
ease,  in  the  cabin  doorway,  and  the  steward  sorting 
out  the  gleaming  yellow  oilskins,  while  the  old 
man,  fingering  and  nodding  approval,  remarks 
them  the  best  lot  he  had  ever  carried.  And  when 
J.  Jones,  with  an  awkward  tug  at  his  forelock,  had 
retired  with  his  purchase,  how  the  old  man  would 
enter  it  up,  chuckling  at  the  thought  of  the  nine 
shillings  and  sevenpence  he  had  made  over  the 
deal. 

' To  Abram  Willis,  one  belt  and  sheth  knife,  '4$' 
Four  shillings!  And  the  best  Green  River  knife 
and  belt  in  'sailortown'  to  be  had  at  two  and 
three!  'J.  Christiansen,  A.B.,  one  pund  tobacco, 
35.'  That  would  be  a  purser's  pound — fourteen 
ounces !  Those  were  a  few  of  the  items  noted 
down  and  thus  left  amiss,  but  assuredly  they 
would  not  be  overlooked  in  the  reckoning.  Writ- 
ten in  the  same  large  hand  they  would  figure  as 
'to  slops  supplied'  in  some  bygone  account  of 
wages. 

Their  writer  will  be  retired  from  the  sea  now, 
if  he  is  still  alive.  In  some  quiet  parish  within  hail 
of  the  sea  he  will  have  his  dwelling,  with  perhaps 
a  seamanlike  flagstaff  in  the  garden  and  a  pair  of 
brass  carronades  flanking  the  doorway.  Bored 


160  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

with  a  longshore  life,  he  will  be  rather  a  trial  to 
his  womenfolk.  Perhaps,  when  he  meets  with 
other  old  sea  captains,  he  will  brighten  up,  and 
will  talk  in  a  prideful  voice  of  the  gales  he  weath- 
ered, passages  he  made,  and  freights  he  earned, 
maybe,  with  a  half  laugh,  of  the  profits  of  'slop 
chest.'  No  doubt  the  memory  of  J.  Jones,  Abram 
Willis,  and  Christiansen,  A.B.,  and  the  amount  of 
their  purchases  will  have  faded  from  his  memory, 
but  of  this  I  am  sure,  that  when  the  wind  rises  and 
howls  a  whole  gale  into  the  village  street,  when, 
afar,  he  hears  the  crash  of  running  seas  on  the 
water  front,  when  the  land  about  is  shrouded  in  a 
pall  of  driving  sleet,  he  will  think  of  the  long 
stormy  days  of  beating  west  round  the  Horn.  Per- 
haps, by  some  quaint  turn  of  memory,  a  trifling 
incident  may  occur  to  him — a  recollection  of  the 
time  when  the  water,  running  from  his  rain-sodden 
sou'wester,  went  drip,  drip,  drip  on  to  the  fifty- 
eighth  page  of  Findlay's  South  Pacific. 


XX 
THE  'ROOTLE  BULL' 

'ITT'HEN  fog  hangs  thick  over  the  Mersey  and 
the  keenest  eyes  are  powerless  to  pierce  the 
clammy  veil,  only  by  sound  and  a  ready  knowledge 
of  its  import  can  the  pilot  navigate  the  busy  water- 
way. Sight,  the  seaman's  master-sense,  denied 
him,  ear  must  do  the  work  of  eye,  and  the  river 
sounds,  distinctive  and  deliberate,  are  there  to 
guide  as  he  feels  a  cautious  way  to  safe  anchorage. 
A  quick,  alarmed  clatter  of  a  ship's  bell  marks  a 
vessel  anchored;  followed  by  the  room,  room  of  a 
brazen  gong,  it  notes  a  lengthy  craft.  The  weak, 
futile  rasp  of  a  hand-horn  tells  of  a  sailing-boat 
under  weigh,  or  of  a  bargeman,  adrift  on  the  river, 
tootling  for  his  steam  escort  to  take  his  lines. 
Then  the  bell-buoys,  tolling  a  doleful  note  of  shoal 
and  sandbank,  and  the  quick  decisive  strokes  that 
mark  the  ferry  piers.  Over  to  the  west,  on  the 
Rock  Lighthouse,  there  sounds  a  clang  of  bells  at 
timely  intervals — sonorous  notes,  tenor  and  bass, 
that  carry  far  enough;  but,  loud  over  all  the  river 
voices,  a  deep,  raucous  bellow  from  the  east  marks 
the  lair  of  the  'Bootle  Bull' — officially  the  North 

161 


i62  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

Wall  Fog  Syren.  Hoarse,  clamorous,  insistent — 
never  could  Bull  of  Bashan  have  tongued  a  note 
like  that!  Fading  to  an  unearthly  wail,  it  rasps 
out  a  message  of  warning,  and  manners  take  heed 
when  the  'Bull'  speaks  and  steer  a  proper  course 
to  keep  the  fairway. 

Far  down  channel,  beyond  the  Crosby  Light- 
ship, we  hear  the  roar  of  the  'Bull,'  and  though 
the  weather  with  us  is  no  more  than  misty,  we 
know  of  thick  fog  in  the  river,  and  our  hopes  of 
'docking  on  the  tide  are  rudely  shaken.  At  first  in 
wandering  patches,  later  a  solid  bank,  the  fog 
comes  down  on  us,  shutting  out  the  lightship  lights, 
the  channel  buoys,  the  shore  beacons;  it  is  time  to 
go  slow,  drifting  up  with  the  tide  and  the  leadsman 
telling  the  depths  in  the  doleful  wail  of  a  practised 
hand.  Now  and  on,  a  hail  from  the  look-out 
brings  the  pilot's  ready  hand  to  the  telegraph 
handle,  ears  strained  to  catch  the  cry,  faint  and 
dulled  as  it  is  by  the  inconstant  fog  wraith. 

"Bell  soundin'  right  ahead,  sir!     Close  to!" 

A  sharp  movement  of  the  hand,  the  pointer 
turns  to  'full  astern,'  and,  with  screw  reversed,  we 
shave  narrowly  past  a  boat-shaped  buoy,  whose 
bells  clang  harshly  at  will  of  the  tide-stream. 
Then  on  again,  turning  water  easily,  the  bows 
scarce  visible  from  the  bridge.  A  dank  south- 
easter this,  with  all  the  smoke  wrack  of  busy  Lan- 
cashire to  thicken  the  driving  fog. 

Loud  and  sudden,  we  hear  the  three  hoarse; 


THE  'ROOTLE   BULL'  163 

blasts  of  Crosby  Lightship.  At  last  they  have  set 
their  horn  to  work.  Brrrr — Brrr — Brrrr. 

'Tort  a  bit!  Port  th'  helm  now!"  The  pilot 
peers  into  the  murk  ahead,  to  mark  the  misty  glare 
of  the  vessel's  light.  As  we  glide  slowly  past,  a 
voice  hails  us  out  of  the  fog. 

"The  steamer,  ah-oy!  Ease  up  ...  ships  to 
an  anchor  .  .  .  below  .  .  .  th'  bell-buoy!" 

"Aye!  Aye!  Easy  it  is!"  answering;  then, 
to  the  steersman,  "South  b'  east,  half  east,  now — 
an'  keen  steering!" 

Sounding  a  deep  warning  note  of  our  syren,  we 
move  slowly  on — all  ears,  listening  for  the  next 
fog  signal  that  will  guide  us  to  safer  waters.  Sti- 
fling all  lesser  notes,  the  'Bootle  Bull'  roars  out  at 
half-minute  intervals,  but  we  are  not  yet  within  his 
range  of  guidance;  the  long  stretch  of  Seaforth 
Sands  lies  bare  between  us.  "I  doubt  we'll  not 
dock  on  this  tide,  Captain !"  says  the  pilot,  button- 
ing his  oilskin  more  closely  to  the  throat.  "Thick 
as  a  hedge,  and  wet  too !  There'll  be  nothing 
moving  in  th'  river  if  it's  like  this!  Hark  t'  th' 
'Bull'!  'Gad!  A  note  like  that's  enough  to 
frighten  any  man  away  t'  sea !" 

"Aye!  I  think  ye'd  better  anchor,  pilot!  No 
weather  t'  be  going  on  in !" 

"An'  I  will,  Captain,  as  soon  as " 

"Ship  to  an  anchor  right  ahead,  sir!" — a  loud, 
startling  cry  from  the  bows. 

"Slow  astern,  Mister!  .  .  .  Can  ye  see  her?" 


164  'BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

— "No!  .  .  .  hear  the  bell  .  .  .  more!"  .  .  . 
"Room,  room,  room,  room."  u'Gad!  A  big 
boat,  too!  .  .  .  Let  go  th'  anchor!  Full  speed 
astern!" 

Ghostly,  in  fog  and  darkness,  the  towering  hull 
of  a  great  liner  looms  up  near  at  hand,  tier  on  tier 
of  misty  lights  about  her  decks,  and  the  glare  of  a 
hastily  fired  bluelight  striking  painfully  on  the  eye. 
The  anchor  holds — we  back  away,  swinging  clear, 
and,  picking  up  our  iron,  move  slowly  ahead,  past 
the  'ocean  monarch.'  Her  anchor  bell  clatters 
noisily,  some  one  from  the  high  bridge  yells 
abusive  advice  through  a  megaphone,  and  astern 
the  brazen  voice  rings  out — "Room,  room,  room, 
room."  We  are  right  among  them  now.  To 
right,  left,  ahead,  astern,  the  clang  of  anchor 
strokes,  beating  of  gongs,  shouts  out  of  the  pall, 
"Ahoy!  Ye're  too  close  .  .  .  sheer  off!  ...  t' 
th'  south'ard,  .  .  ."  and  a  welcome  hint  from  a 
brother  pilot — "No  room  this  side  .  .  .  bell- 
buoy.  .  .  .  Clear  space  t'  th'  south'ard,  I  think!" 

Hot  work!  Steering  orders,  and  the  engine- 
room  bell  clanging  out  a  range  of  speeds  that  set 
the  men  below  to  a  chorus  of  anathema.  Only  a 
Mersey  pilot  could  keep  a  clear  head  in  all  the 
din,  and  shortly,  clear  of  the  press,  we  are  heark- 
ening for  the  guiding  strokes  of  the  bell-buoy. 

There,  we  have  it.  Three-pun' -ten!  Three- 
pun'-ten!  Clear  and  distinct  it  rings  out  (as 
sailor-nren  say)  the  wages  of  the  port.  Now  we 


THE  'BOOTLE  BULL*  165 

are  in  clearer  waters.  There  is  no  sound  of  any- 
thing moving  in  the  river,  and  the  Pilot,  embold- 
ened by  the  silence,  keeps  her  moving — creeping 
cautiously  from  buoy  to  buoy,  guided  now  by  the 
hoarse,  raucous  bellow  of  the  'Bull.'  Nearer  we 
draw,  till  old  'Iron  Throat'  thunders  his  message 
over  our  mastheads,  and  we  swing  round  to  the 
tide,  the  anchor  cast. 

The  flood  has  an  hour  to  run,  the  weather  an 
hour  to  clear,  if  we  are  to  get  safely  into  dock, 
and  anxious  eyes  are  cast  about  for  sign  of  a  lift 
to  the  heavy  dank  curtain  that  envelops  us. 

Sure  it  comes!  The  luck  that  has  brought  us 
up  channel,  unseeing  and  unseen,  still  holds !  The 
fog  lifts,  driven  to  seaward,  and  we  find  ourselves 
(cleverly,  if  chancily,  placed  in  station  for  enter- 
ing) off  the  Langton  Pierheads. 

"A-hoy!  What— boat's  that?"  Not  Stentor 
himself  could  have  bettered  the  dockman's  hail! 
Weakly  by  comparison,  we  roar  our  name. 

"Al' right!  Coom  alongside  .  .  .  ye' re  f'r  th' 
East  Hornby.  Hurry  oop,  now,  'ere  th'  water 
goes  back!" 

We  swing  between  the  pierhea'ds  and  enter  'dock 
with  only  minutes  to  spare,  and  scarce  are  moored 
before  the  fog  comes  down  again,  dense,  impene- 
trable, banked  closer  by  the  wandering  draught  of 
wind  that  had  set  the  veil  momentarily  aside.  The 
ship  fast  to  her  quay-berth,  we  go  below,  fog-tired 
and  sleepy.  Near  at  hand  the  'Bull'  roars  out  his 


166  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

timely  signal,  and  from  the  river  without  comes 
the  deep,  reverberating  syren-blast  of  a  large 
vessel  under  weigh.  That  will  be  the  liner  from 
whose  lofty,  gold-laced  bridge  we  were  told  to 
"take  that  canal  barge  out  t'  th'  nar'rard!"  She 
will  be  groping  for  a  second  anchorage,  too  late 
for  the  tide,  and  here  we  lie,  snugly  berthed  behind 
the  'Bootle  Bull,'  case-hardened  to  his  bellow  and 
ready  for  sleep. 

Turning  the  more  cosily  amid  our  blankets  we 
murmur,  "Well!  good  luck  to  the  gilt-edged 
'hooker,'  anyway.  Hope  they  like  it,  out  there  in 
the  river,  tooting  the  great  horn,  clanging  bell,  and 
beating  gong,  till  the  day  breaks  and  the  tide  comes 
again!" 


XXI 
THE  'SHANGHAIED'  RUNNERS 

A  T  the  south-east  corner  of  the  Queen's  Dock, 
•*  *•  where  the  line  of  sheds  comes  to  an  abrupt 
end  and  idle  railway  trucks  make  up  the  view, 
there  is  space  enough  for  a  short  deep-water  walk 
— say,  twenty  paces  and  a  turn — if  one  be  but 
careful  to  avoid  the  junction  crossing  stones.  It 
lies  without  the  bounds,  concerning  which  a  notice- 
board  informs  that — 'Smoking  in  this  roadway  is 
strictly  prohibited' ;  is  out  of  the  way  of  straining 
Clydesdales,  laden  lorries,  and  swearing  carters; 
and  the  shed  end  forms  a  fine  weather-screen 
against  the  chill  wind  and  rain  that  sweeps  up  the 
river.  From  this  point  of  vantage  a  good  look- 
out can  be  kept  on  harbour  doings;  no  gaffer  can 
pass  along  to  dock  or  ferry  without  being  seen; 
and  thus  it  has  been  for  years  the  'stand'  of  the 
longshore  gangs — odd  men,  who  do  sailor  work 
on  the  vessels  in  dock. 

They  come  there  in  the  early  morning,  ready 
for  a  lucky  day's  work  that  begins  at  six,  and  till 
late  in  the  afternoon  groups  of  weather-beaten 
men  may  be  seen  pacing  to  and  fro,  generally  in 
twos,  each  with  a  battered  oilskin  slung  over  his 

167 


i68  'BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

arm.  Many  of  them  are  'riggers'  by  trade,  but  of 
late  years  that  branch  of  sailoring  has  fallen  away. 
Having  had  the  misfortune  to  engage  in  a  business 
that  the  engineer  has  since  abolished,  they  are  now 
glad  to  take  any  waterside  job,  from  washing 
paintwork  on  a  Clyde  liner  to  earning  a  few  shil- 
lings— 'a  hauf  tide' — at  shifting  a  vessel  from  her 
quay-berth.  Occasionally  some  of  them  go  to 
sea  for  a  spell,  but  most  are  anchored  to  the  beach, 
and,  year  by  year,  the  same  faces  surround  a 
bo'sun  on  the  quest  for  'hands.'  It  is  a  precarious 
living  they  make;  a  day's  work,  perhaps,  between 
two  of  idleness.  'Coolie'  crews  and  Chinamen 
have  further  reduced  their  chances  of  a  'tide's 
work'  on  the  local  vessels,  and,  since  'strictest 
economy'  is  the  word  on  the  few  sailing-ships  that 
come  to  the  port,  sailor  work  on  square  rigging  is 
not  what  it  used  to  be. 

Naturally,  with  time  hanging  heavy,  the  long- 
shoremen are  famous  'yarn  spinners,'  and  many 
curious  incidents  of  Clyde  shipping  are  talked  of 
'on  the  stand.'  Discussions  and  arguments  (that 
sometimes  call  for  the  attentions  of  Angus  Beaton, 
the  ferry  'polis')  go  on,  and  when  there  is  no  more 
to  be  said  of  ship  affairs,  and,  for  the  unnumbered 
time,  the  quality  of  the  liquor  at  the  lona  Vaults 
has  been  condemned,  the  posters  on  a  near  board- 
ing offer  subject-matter  for  debate.  Much  idle 
time  may  be  passed  in  discussing  the  identity  of 
X.  M'Y.,  a  seaman,  or  Z.  M'B.,  a  plate-layer's 


THE   'SHANGHAIED'  RUNNERS    169 

labourer,  who,  as  set  forth  in  a  warning  broad- 
sheet, have  received  two  and  four  months  respec- 
tively for  deserting  their  wives  and  children. 

A  familiar  figure  among  the  longshore  gang  was 
old  Shaw,  a  genuine  journeyman  rigger.  Summer 
and  winter,  bad  weather  or  fine,  old  'Wully'  took 
the  'stand'  among  his  mates,  working  off  and  on — 
now  a  day  at  bending  sail  on  a  Loch  Line  clipper, 
or  perhaps,  if  trade  was  brisk,  a  week  or  two  in 
the  yards  or  rigging  loft.  With  'Wully'  it  was  not 
always  thus.  Among  his  'min'  fine's'  were  memo- 
ries of  a  time  when  the  Clyde  quays  were  lined  by 
lofty  ships,  of  whose  stout  rigging  and  spread  of 
canvas  he  would  talk  with  pride.  "Them  wis  th' 
times  i'  th'  riggin'  tred,"  he  would  say;  "the  rig- 
gers did  a'  the  wark  in  port;  no  a  deep-water  man 
wid  lay  haun'  on  rope  tull  th'  'bluepeter'  wis  up! 
Fine  times!  Six  days  i'  th'  week  at  proper  joabs; 
mastin'  an'  riggin'.  .  .  .  An'  as  shune's  we  hud  a 
ship  fitted  oot,  an'  th'  riggin'  set  up  an'  the  yairds 
an'  sails  aloft,  up  wid  come  a  new  hull  frae  th' 
yairds!"  Though  a  'rigger,'  conservative  of  his 
'tred,'  'Wully'  had  made  odd  voyages  from  time 
to  time.  'Runs'  they  were  called,  and,  being 
profitable,  were  keenly  sought  after  by  the  long- 
shore gang. 

When  a  sailing-ship  had  discharge'd  her  inward 
cargo,  she  had  often  to  be  sent  to  another  port  to 
load.  It  would  not  have  been  profitable  for  art 
owner  to  engage  a  deep-water  crew,  and  have  them 


170  'BROKEN  STOWAGE \ 

hanging  on — Heserting  perhaps — while  the  vessel's 
cargo  was  being  loaded.  It  was  cheaper  to  employ 
'runners'  to  work  from  port  to  port,  paying  them 
a  lump  sum  for  the  passage.  Most  vessels  were 
towed  on  these  short  voyages,  and  beyond  unmoor- 
ing and  mooring,  washing  decks,  trimming  yards, 
and  perhaps  setting  a  topsail  to  help  the  tug-boat 
when  the  wind  was  fair,  the  'runners'  had  an  easy 
job. 

On  two  such  voyages  I  was  shipmates  with  a 
'Glesca  crood,'  among  them  old  'Wully,'  and  al- 
ways when  I  stopped  at  the  'stand'  to  pass  a  word 
with  the  old  man  it  would  be — "D'ye  min'  yon 
time  we  wis  'shanghaied,'  younp;  f 'la-ma-lad?" 

"Fine  that,"  the  answer;  and  old  Wully,  with 
an  "Ecod!  YON  wis  a  voyage!"  will  turn  to  his 
mates : 

"That  wis  in  th'  Florence  that  me  an'  him  wis 
shipmets  .  .  .  yin  o'  Broon's  auld  ships.  They're 
a'  by  wi'  noo.  Broon's  wis  aye  guid  tae  th'  Clyde 
chaps.  If  they  had  a  ship  at  th'  ootports  comin* 
here  tae  load,  they  gi'en  the  'rinnin' '  tae  aul' 
Annan,  him  that  did  th'  riggin'  wark  up  by.  I 
use'  tae  wark  wi'  Annan — me  an'  big  Bob  Gem- 
mell  an'  Maguire  an'  th'  lang  Dutchman  an'  a 
wheen  ithers — an'  when  a  'run'  wis  gaun,  we  aye 
got  a  sicht.  Fine  joabs,  tae!  The  ships  aye 
towed  frae  port  tae  port,  an'  made  quick  wark  o't. 
...  Ye  wid  be  three  days  or  fower  at  the  maist 
on  th'  passage,  an'  efter  peyin'  yer  railway  fare, 


THE    ' SHANGHAIED'    RUNNERS     171 

ye  hud  twa-three  poun's  in  yer  pooch  when  ye  cam' 
back  tae  th'  tred!" 

"Ecod!  ye' re  richt,  Wully!  Then  wis  times!" 
— someone  fingering  the  empty  bowl  of  a  'cutty.' 

"That  time  we  wis  speaking  aboot  .  .  ,..  the 
time  we  wis  'shanghaied,'  we  went  tae  Middlesbro' 
tae  bring  th'  Florence  roun'  tae  th'  Clyde.  We 
sign't  on  here,  an'  thocht  it  wis  the  usual  towin' 
joab,  but  when  we  got  ootside  th'  Hartlepools  an' 
th'  tops'ls  on  her — 'Le-go  th'  hawser,'  says  th' 
Auld  Man — Capt'n  Leish  ...  ye  ken  'm? 

"'Whit?' says  we. 

'  'Let — go — th'  hawser,'  he  sings  oot — frae  th' 
poop.  'Come  on  there,  man,'  says  young  Annan 
(that  wis  daein'  the  second  mate's  joab).  'Come 
on!  Smert  wi'  it!  Let  go  th'  hawser,'  ses  he. 

'  'Oh,  Criffens,'  ses  we,  'are  you  no'  gaun  tae 
tow  roun'  ?' 

'Tow  roun'  be  dam!'  ses  he.     'Whit?     Tow 
roun'  wi'  a  fine  fair  win'  like  this?' 

"Weel!  There  wis  naethin'  fur't — orders  wis 
orders — an'  we  flung  aff  the  tow-rope  an'  begood 
th'  voyage.  Criffens!  It  wis  a  voyage,  tae! 

"She  wis  in  ballast  trum;  aboot  five  hunner  ton 
o'  pig-airn  i'  th'  hold,  an'  th'  Auld  Man  widna 
trust  her  wi'  much  sail. 

"Cranky  ships,  anyway — them  o'  Broon's. 

"Aye!    Weel,  lauds,  we  hud  a  fair  win'  as  faur 
up  th'  coast's  St.  Abb's  Heid,  an'  then  th'  win' 
easterly,  an'  th'  Auld  Man  hauls  aff  an'  oot 


172  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

o'  sicht  o'  th'  Ian'.  Days  went  by,  an'  weeks,  an' 
us  yins  beatin'  aboot  i'  th'  North  Sea.  We  had 
nae  claes  fur  th'  voyages — us  ;ettlin'  tae  be  hame 
behin'  a  guid-gaun  tug-boat  afore  th'  week  wis  oot. 
Me,  I  hud  only  whit  I  stood  up  in !  But  that  wisna 
the  warst  o'  it!  Bein'  a  coastin'  trup  th'  Auld 
Man  couldna  break  th'  Customs  seal  an'  gie's  a  bit 
o'  tabacca!  When  wur  twa  unce  o'  thick  black 
that  we  stertit  wi'  dune  ...  ye  min'  that,  young 
f'la  ...  us  smokin'  tawrry  rope  yarns  an'  tea 
leaves  an'  coffee  groun's !  Criffens  I 

"Aff  Fair  Isle  in  th'  Orkneys,  when  we  wis  aboot 
a  fortnicht  oot,  a  boat  cam'  aff  wi'  th'  Islesmen 
wantin'  tae  swap  fush  fur  a  bit  tabacca.  Losh! 
They  cam'  tae  the  richt  ship !  We  bummed  a'  the 
tabacca  they  had  on  them!  I  got  twa  inches  o' 
black  twist  fur  ma  best  knife ! 

"Man,  it's  a'fu'  weather  they  hae  up  yonder! 
We  jist  hud  gales  an'  gales — it  wis  October  month 
— an'  Auld  Leish  wis  that  feart  tae  pit  sail  on  her! 
We  jist  daunert  aboot  under  taps'ls — got  a  sicht 
o'  Cape  Wrath — an'  oot  we  goes  intul  th'  At- 
lantic! Dod!  We  thocht  we'd  never  see  Stob- 
cross  again! 

"Three  weeks  by,  him  that  wis  mate  o'  her  cam' 
furrit  an'  tried  th'  bounce.  'Turn  to,  you  men,' 
ses  he.  'Turn  to  an'  wash  paint,  an'  hiv  her  de- 
cent-like  fur  gaun  up  tae  Glesca,'  ses  he. 

"  'Deil  a  wash,'  says  we.     'We  sign't  fur  th' 


THE  'SHANGHAIED'   RUNNERS    173 

run,'  we  says,  'an'  ye're  gettin'  mair  nor  that  oot 
o'  us!  We'll  wash  deck,  an'  hand  sail,  an'  steer 
th'  hooker — but  if  ye  want  yer  ship  redd  up,'  says 
we,  'that'll  hae  tae  be  a  new  contrack!' 

"He  did  a  bit  swearin'  an'  that,  tull  big  Gem- 
mell  said  that  he  wid  gi'e  'm  a  shoat  on  th'  nose; 
then  he  went  aft,  an'  young  Annan  come  furrit  an' 
tried  his  haun'  at  persuadin'. 

"It  wis  nae  use!  We  widna  dae  a  haun's  turn. 
.  .  .  Dod !  an' she  wis  durty !  .  .  .  We  jist  sat  on 
th'  spaur  en's  an'  watched  th  'young  f'la  there — 
him  an'  th'  ither  apprentices — slingin'  th'  soogy- 
moogy  an'  washin'  aff,  an'  th'  mate  staunnin'  by, 
glowerin'  at  a' ! 

"We  wunnert  whit  oor  yins  wis  daein'  at  hame 
wi'  nae  siller  comin'  in.  Dod!  Ther'll  be  a  'pant' 
in  Bothwell  Street,  we  thocht.  A  trail  o'  wifes  an' 
weans  up  speirin'  whit's  cam'  ower  the  man's  boat! 

"Syne,  when  we  wis  twinty-eicht  days  oot  frae 
Middlesbro',  we  got  a  bit  o'  a  'slant.'  No  much 
o't.  .  .  .  Win'  in  th'  west'ard,  an'  Auld  Leish 
feart  tae  run  in — an'  there  wis  we  dodgin'  aboot 
west  o'  Skerryvore.  We  hud  a  bit  o'  a  'confab' 
in  th'  fo'c's'le,  an'  then  goes  aft  tae  see  th'  Auld 
Man.  'Captin,'  says  big  Bob,  'ye've  a  fair  win' 
noo,  an'  we're  a'  wantin'  tae  win  hame!  If  ye'll 
no'  pit  the  to'gal'ns'ls  on  her,'  ses  he,  'we're  a' 
gaun  tae  hing  wur  shurts  on'  th'  topmas'  riggin','. 
ses  he — 'an'  see  if  that  winna  bring  her  in!' 


i74  /BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

"  'Whit's  a'  this?'  says  Auld  Leish,  'whit's  this? 
Mutiny? — b'Goad!  Div  ye  daur  tae  come  aft 
here  an'  tell  me  hoo  tae  sail  ma  ship  ?'  ses  he. 

"  'Aye,  that,'  ses  big  Bob.  'We're  a  wheert 
desp'rate  men,  Captin,'  ses  he.  'A'  wur  wires  an' 
weans  is  on  th'  Pairish  by  noo,  an'  there's  no'  a 
smoke  o'  tabacca  in  th'  bloody  ship !' 

"In  a  fine  funk  Auld  Leish  ordert  us  yins  aff 
th'  poop,  but  it  wisna  lang  afore  he  gi'en  her  th' 
to'gal'ns'ls. 

"Aff  the  'Hull'  th'  win'  whuppit  intae  th'  nor'- 
west,  an'  we  cam'  hame  in  fine  style.  Between 
Sanna  an'  th'  Pladda  Lichts  yin  o'  Steel's  boats 
cam'  aff  t'  tow  us  in.  I  kent  th'  skipper  o'  her — 
wee  Sanny  Devlin  .  .  .  stops  up  by  in  th' 
Weaver's  Pen,  on  th'  same  stairheid's  ma  merrit 
dochter.  As  shune's  he  sees  sicht  o'  us  he  shouts 
oot:  'Weelyum  Shaw,'  ses  he.  'Weel-yum  Shaw 
an'  Rubbert  Gemmell,  b'Goad!  Man,  we  thocht 
ye  wis  a  droont!' 

"  'Aye,  that,'  ses  he.  'We  thocht  ye  wis  a'f 
droont,  an'  th'  Prudenshial's  stopped  callin'  fur 
yer  weekly  money,'  ses  he !" 


XXII 
CHOTA    BURSAT 

'IpHE  rday  had  been  breathless.  The  sun, 
•*•  scarce  veiled  by  thin,  filmy  clouds,  had 
worked  his  fiery  will  on  us  all  day.  All  ironwork 
about  the  decks  stood  painfully  hot  to  the  touch. 
Blistering  paint  and  spurting  pitch  from  the  deck 
seams  set  up  an  almost  unbearable  stench.  A 
quivering  vapour  had  stood,  man  high,  over  the 
open  hatchways  and  lower  decks — a  dazzling, 
luminous  haze  that  tried  our  tired  eyes  and  dis- 
torted all  objects  to  fevered  images.  Added  to 
this  was  the  noise  and  steam  of  our  working  ship. 
A  ceaseless  throb  of  the  winches — the  round  and 
rattling  of  falls — hoarse,  raucous  cries  and  orders 
of  hatchmen — the  hiss  and  screaming  of  over- 
worked valves.  Oh,  we  are  sick  of  it  all — and 
glad  when  six  comes  and  the  Bombay  Dock  syren 
sounds  out  for  stoppage  I 

A  grateful  quiet  falls  over  the  ship  when  the 
last  of  the  gangs  goes  ashore,  and  we  seek  out  a 
passably  cool  spot  on  the  upper  deck  to  set  out  our 
chairs  and  watch  the  tyrant  sun  go  down.  Count- 
less evening  fires  have  made  a  soft  haze  over  the 


176  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE ' 

roofs  of  the  native  town,  and  the  sun  shows  blood- 
red  through  it  as  he  goes  from  sight.  Clouds,  that 
before  were  invisible,  come  up  when  the  sun  has 
gone  and  stand  in  serried  banks  in  the  west — pil- 
ing up  and  piling  up,  but  never  rising  beyond  a 
modest  altitude. 

The  usual  evening  sky  for  the  time  of  year — a 
little  red,  perhaps,  but  certainly  nothing  ominous 
in  appearance. 

Darkness  comes  swiftly  on  the  heels  of  sunset. 
Lights  spring  up  on  the  roofs  and  balconies,  show- 
ing that  even  the  natives  are  feeling  the  heat  in 
their  ill-ventilated  flats.  As  the  glow  in  the  west 
dies  out  of  the  evening  sky,  a  reflected  glare  from 
the  city's  lighted  streets  takes  its  place:  now  the 
clouds  look  dun  and  sullen,  with  their  lower  edges 
tinted;  small  portions  are  detached  and  breaking 
away  and  sail  up  into  the  starlit  zenith. 

The  ebbing  stream  of  dock  labour  still  wanders 
homeward.  A  large  gang  of  coal  coolies  come  in 
from  their  clay's  work  at  a  steamer  in  the  harbour. 
Many  are  women  and  small  children,  and  their 
shrill  voices,  wrangling  and  protesting  as  is  their 
way  when  work  is  over,  carry  far  in  the  still  night 
air.  Gharries  go  wheeling  swiftly  up  the  dock 
roadway  bearing  those  of  us  whom  the  breathless 
rday  has  not  daunted  to  an  evening's  mild  distrac- 
tion. A  long  train  from  up  country  comes  slowly 
into  the  dock  lines.  The  ;engine  snorts  in  sudden 
alarming  spasms  as  it  'drives  the  la'den  waggons 


CHOTA  BURSAT  177 

across  the  points.  A  white-robed  peon  walks  be- 
fore the  advancing  waggons,  ringing  a  hand-bell 
to  warn  all  the  stern  fatalists  who  have  laid  down 
to  sleep  on  the  railway  lines.  The  train  draws  up 
at  the  sidings  and  I  notice  that  the  open  waggons 
are  securely  covered  by  tarpaulin  sheets. 

"Railway  people  are  taking  no  risks,"  said  the 
second.  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  does  rain  to- 
night. Hear  thunder  across  the  harbour.  We 
haven't  had  that  before,  though  there's  been  light- 
ning a  plenty.  These  clouds,  too.  Banking  up  for 
something,  I  sh'd  say." 

"Oh,  the  usual,"  says  I.  "We  may  count  on 
this  every  night  now  till  the  rains  break.  The 
cautionary  signal  was  up  to-day  again.  They  say 
the  monsoon  burst  at  Colombo  yesterday:  it  will 
take  ten  days  at  least  to  work  up  the  coast." 

"Bhundoo,  the  colree  wallah,  told  me  it  would 
rain  to-night.  He  had  it  from  his  astrologer — one 
of  the  pandits  at  his  temple — and  he's  laying  his 
grain  under  cover." 

"Wise  man.  Not  that  I  put  any  faith  in  his 
pandit,  though.  You'll  remember  the  rumours 
and  prophecies  that  were  flying  about  the  bazaar 
when  the  King  was  on  his  way  out.  The  pandits 
foretold  no  end  of  dire  happenings  that  never 
came  off.  Bhundoo's  man  is  working  on  the  'off 
chance.'  There  is  always  uncertainty  in  the 
weather  just  now,  chota  bur  sat  is  about  due.  If 
it  rains — well  and  good.  If  it  doesn't?  Well — 


178.  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

the  gods  are  displeased  because  Bhundoo  hasn't 
given  enough  rupees  to  the  temple  funds." 

4 'And  yet,  with  all  the  uncertainty  in  the 
weather,  plenty  of  Bhundoo  caste  are  willing  to 
stand  the  risk.  Look  at  that  big  stack  of  linseed 
over  by  the  customs  godown.  Must  be  three  or 
four  thousand  bags  there,  and  not  as  much  as  a 
rag  of  canvas  over  the  lot.  There'll  be  terrible 
mess  of  it  if  the  rain  comes." 

"That's  so.  I  suppose  the  long  spell  of  dry 
weather,  eight  months  or  more,  has  led  to  a  lot  of 
forgetting.  The  merchants  will  be  hoping  to  get 
that  lot  shipped  before  the  rains  break.  Tar- 
paulins are  few  and  dear  just  now  with  the  pros- 
pect of  the  monsoon  so  close." 

Now,  silence.  Six  to  six  leaves  an  aching  of  the 
bones — long  chairs  have  but  one  use  when  the 
day's  work  is  done. 

I  have  no  idea  of  how  time  has  gone,  but  stir 
suddenly  to  find  the  night  air  grown  chill.  The 
decks  below  stand  glistening  against  the  glow  of 
the  gangway  lamps.  The  rain  has  come.  A  soft 
shower,  cooling  and  welcome,  has  passed  over 
whilst  we  slept.  It  is  the  forerunner  of  a  heavy 
'downpour,  for  the  banked  clouds  in  the  west  are 
rising  swiftly,  and  the  once  sharp  black  outline  of 
the  sheds  and  warehouses  is  grey  an'd  misty. 
Across  the  roadway,  men  are  hurrying  with  tar- 
paulins to  cover  the  big  stack  of  linseed  bags:  al- 
ready the  wind  has  risen  and  their  covers  are 


CHOTA  BURSAT  179 

blown  about  here  and  there  before  they  can  fasten 
'down  securely.  A  stout  headman  stands  by  under 
an  umbrella,  and  he  curses  and  praises  alternately 
and  impartially  as  the  men  go  about  the  work. 
Now  it  is,  'Sabass,  maribab' — and  then — 'Hutt, 
Sooar.  Bhun  karao  ghildi*  He  will  be  the  mer- 
chant's man,  now  come  to  carry  out  his  master's 
order  of  a  week  ago. 

But  he  might  as  well  save  his  breath.  Before 
the  tarpaulins  are  quite  unrolled,  the  squall  is 
upon  us.  It  begins  with  a  low  hissing  that  swells 
quickly  to  a  treble  shriek  as  the  wind  comes  over 
the  housetops.  And  rain!  Phew — w.  A  solid 
sheet — slanting  furiously  I  Away  goes  the  head- 
man's umbrella.  Away  the  covers.  A  man  on  the 
top  of  the  stack  bends  to  the  blast,  staggers, 
clutches  at  the  topmost  bag,  and  comes  toppling  to 
the  ground.  The  others  let  rip  everything  and  run 
to  him.  He  rises  spluttering  and  feeling  his  bones, 
looks  about  for  his  turban,  and  makes  off,  binding 
his  long  wet  headgear  as  he  runs.  Shouting  to- 
gether, the  others  follow  him  and  make  for  shelter. 
The  merchant's  man  stands  under  the  lee  of  the 
bags.  For  a  time  he  shouts  to  the  men.  He  makes 
promises!  He  implores!  He  curses!  Then, 
standing  out  in  the  wind  and  rain,  he  holds  his 
hands  up  to  high  heaven  and  weeps ! 

Quickly  as  it  came  up,  the  squall  passes  over. 
The  stars  shine  out,  showing  what  chota  bursat  has 
left  to  remind  us  that  the  great  rains  are  almost 


i8o  'BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

Hue.  The  hard-baked  earth  of  the  day  is  not  easily 
permeated,  and  the  dock  roadway  is  a  solid  sheet 
— a  lake — and  the  water  is  foaming  in  cascade 
over  the  quay  wall  into  the  dock. 

Over  by  the  Customs  godovon  the  men  are  busy 
at  the  big  stack  of  bags.  It  is  light  enough  to  see. 
The  merchant's  man  has  recovered  his  umbrella 
and  is  pointing,  pointing.  I  know  what  they  are 
doing.  They  are  turning  the  wet  and  damaged 
outer  bags  to  show  a  dry  skin  to  the  casual  glance. 
Come  to-morrow,  and  the  merchant  is  anxious,  he 
will  find  his  linseed  securely  covered  and  battened 
down.  Should  he  lift  a  corner  to  satisfy  himself, 
the  bags  will  be  dry  to  the  touch. 

He  will  congratulate  himself  on  having  come  so 
well  out  of  chota  bursat. 


XXIII 
A  SAILOR'S  VIEW 

CAILORMEN  often  talk  of  the  beauty  of  the 
^  Firth  of  Clyde,  the  grandeur  of  the  estuaries  of 
Thames  and  Mersey,  but  as  yet  the  Ship  Canal  as 
an  approach  to  a  port  is  scarcely  mentioned  by 
them  except  as  a  big  job  in  engineering,  a  theme 
of  countless  arguments  (and  sometimes  broken 
heads)  in  dog-watch  parliaments.  And  this  is 
without  reason,  for  the  Canal  has  beauties  that 
sailors  should  most  appreciate — rich  rural  scenery 
and  broad  stretches  of  country  that  could  never  be 
seen  from  the  sea.  The  narrow  (sometimes  too 
narrow)  channel  gives  one  a  near-hand  view  of  the 
surrounding  country,  and  the  doings  of  farmer 
folk  in  the  fields  are  no  longer  speculative  mys- 
teries to  the  seaman.  There  is  a  place  at  Barton 
where  one  could  almost  throw  a  handful  of  ship's 
biscuit  among  the  hens,  and  near  Eastham  (if  we 
were  not  always  in  a  hurry)  we  could  go  bird-nest- 
ing with  boat-hooks  from  the  height  of  the  main- 
top. 

True,  there  is  not  here  the  stateliness  of  High- 
land hills,  the  breadth  and  movement  of  a  windy 
seascape,  but  the  flat  plains  with  the  misty,  distant 

181 


182  *  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

hills  have  a  beauty  of  their  own,  an'd  one  cart  al- 
ways keep  a  purely  business  eye  for  bucket 
(dredgers  and  mud  flats,  and  perhaps  find  some- 
thing important  to  do  when  Widnes,  with  its  belch- 
ing chimneys,  heaves  in  sight.  Entering  at  East- 
ham,  the. woods  and  leafy  lanes,  the  gorse-covered 
banks,  the  fields  and  the  cattle  are  a  direct  call  to 
sailormen  to  'swallow  the  anchor'  and  come 
a-f arming;  and  when  the  rock-cutting  is  reached, 
it  is  with  reluctance  that  you  turn  to  give  advice  to 
the  tugman,  towing  a  long  line  of  sheering  barges, 
that  always  meets  you  at  the  very  narrowest  part. 
After  the  cutting  there  are.  broad  fields  with  cattle 
in  them — fat,  red  cattle  that  we  talk  about  when 
seeing  the  lean,  starved-looking  bullocks  that  draw 
the  carts  at  Bombay.  Trees  fade  away  to  the 
horizon  where  blue  church  towers  and  spires  mark 
the  villages  beyond.  At  Ellesmere  the  huge  grain 
warehouse  gives  an  awkward  touch  to  the  land- 
scape, but  if  the  contrast  is  too  much  for  you,  you 
can  always  find  an  interest  in  the  tall  sailing-ships 
lying  berthed  there,  where  blue-eyed  Scandinavian 
seamen  hook  logs  out  of  yawning  bow-ports  and 
form  them  into  rafts  for  their  passage  through  the 
canals.  Here  is  a  network  of  smaller  waterways; 
locks  and  steps*  and  bridges  are  everywhere,  and, 
away  up  the  hill,  the  masts  of  a  barge  will  show 
you  where  inland  ships  go  a-sailing,  where  the 
chief  engineer  says  'Gee  up,  you.1  Near  the  locks 
is  a  ship-chandler's  shop,  with  life-buoys  and  tar- 


A  SAILOR'S  VIEW  183 

paulins  and  cans  of  paint  in  the  little  chequered 
windows :  on  fine  days  they  hang  out  oilskins  to  dry 
among  the  fruit  trees.  There  is  a  fine  stretch  of 
country  from  here  to  the  sluice-gate.  In  some 
places,  the  fields  are  lower  than  the  level  of  the 
Canal,  and  long-beaked  dredger  cranes  are  set  up 
at  the  sides  to  pour  mud  and  soil  from  the  canal 
bottom,  and  serve  a  twofold  purpose  by  deepen- 
ing the  fairway  and  strengthening  the  banks. 
Strangely,  the  dredging  plant  that  would  be  a  blot 
on  a  seascape  seems  here  to  be  quite  in  keeping 
with  ploughing  and  sowing  and  reaping  that  go  on 
in  their  seasons  in  the  fields  around.  The  men  on 
the  stagings  have  their  trousers  tied  below  the 
knee,  perhaps  with  wisps  of  straw:  theyMook  like 
country  labourers  come  strangely  to  work  on  salt 
water. 

Now — a  shadow  on  the  northern  sky;  grim  In- 
dustry in  sorriest  guise.  Widnes !  Can  anywhere 
surpass  Widnes,  as  you  round  the  bend?  A  bleak 
array  of  smouldering  v.  aste-heaps,  with  a  hundred 
and  more  huge  chimneys  belching  forth  foul  fumes 
to  an  ever  darkling  sky.  What  a  monument  to 
man's  power  of  disfigurement — what  a  cancer  on 
the  fair  breast  of  Mother  Earth !  Widnes ! 

Runcorn  has  a  tract  of  bare  ground  beside  the 
bridges,  and  there  the  children  gather  to  greet  us 
as  we  pass.  Once  they  used  to  ask  us  of  our  voy- 
age and  cargo,  but  with  the  spread  of  education  the 
cry  is  now — 'Chook  oos  a  banan — ah.' 


1 84  '  BROKEN  STORAGE  ' 

Beyon'd  Latchford  there  are  farms,  and  on  quiet 
spring  nights  you  can  hear  the  cuckoo.  Rabbits 
run  about  the  banks,. and  they  pay  more  attention 
to  their  nibbling  than  to  the  East  Indiaman  surging 
past.  Old  roads,  over  which  stage-coaches  once 
rattled,  begin  and  end  at  the  Canal  banks:  over- 
grown with  weeds  and  verdure,  they  look  to  be  no 
man's  land,  and  the  plough  turns  at  their  bordering 
hedgerows.  Houses  that  once  flanked  important 
highways  now  stand  in  the  midst  of  fields,  for  the 
roadways  have  been  diverted  to  lead  up  to  the 
giant  bridges.  As  we  pass  under  them,  express 
trains  go  thundering  over  our  mastheads,  and  pas- 
sengers crane  their  necks  out  of  carriage  windows 
to  peer  down  our  funnels  and  speculate  as  to  our 
trim  and  tonnage.  Now  Partington,  the  coaling 
place,  with  gaunt  grimy  staithes,  rumbling  wag- 
gons, and  squat,  ugly  vessels  moored  to  the 
wharves.  Even"  a  king's  yacht  would  look  mon- 
strous with  her  top-masts  housed  and  funnels  tele- 
scoped to  fractions.  There  is  no  beauty  here — no 
fields,  no  trees — but  a  pointing  hand  on  a  notice- 
board  shows  promise — 'To  THE  VILLAGE/ 

Between  Irlam  and  Barton  meadows  stretch  out 
on  both  banks,  and  the  kindly  weather  often  throws 
a  wet,  blue  pall  over  the  factories  and  their  ghostly 
chimneys  beyond.  Here  is  a  narrow  part  of  the 
Canal,  and  awkward  for  big  ships  meeting,  and 
there  is  a  famous  churning  of  foam  when  the  tugs 
fire  up  and  strain  in  their  efforts  to  keep  their 


A  SAILOR'S  VIEW  185 

charges  apart.  The  salt  water  has  entirely  gone 
now,  and  the  colour  of  the  wash  suggests  that  the 
Canal  Company  have  reason  when  they  estimate 
their  water  space  in  acres. 

Near  Barton  Bridge  the  houses  have  strips  of 
garden  sloping  down  to  the  Canal  banks.  Each 
has  an  erection  at  the  low  end,  where  men  sit  on 
Saturday  afternoons  with  their  jackets  off  and 
pipes  alight,  and  criticise  the  ships.  Farther  on  the 
scene  is  that  of  the  outskirts  of  any  great  city,  with 
Trafford  Park  and  the  golfers  to  show  that  even 
great  commercial  schools  must  have  their  play- 
ground. Then  on  to  the  docks,  where  ships  carry 
their  anchors  over  the  winning-post  and  loud- 
voiced  men  stow  sweet  tobacco  on  the  site  of  a 
judge's  box,  for  here  was  the  old  racecourse  that 
saw  many  a  stirring  spurt  for  the  Manchester  Cup. 
That  was  in  the  old  days,  in  the  early  days  of  the 
Canal,  when  the  men  at  the  Locks  cracked  their 
heaving  lines  and  shouted  'Whoa'  as  their  first 
big  steamers  came  to  the  berths.  Now  all  that  is 
changed.  No  longer  the  population  crowd  to  the 
Docks  to  see  that  the  ships  are  really  there,  a 
brass-buttoned  uniform  calls  for  no  passing  glance. 
Manchester  has  become  accustomed  to  her  sea- 
farers. 

Still,  it  is  interesting  to  note  the  change  that  has 
come  over  the  Docks  district  since  the  ships  came 
inland.  What  was  a  ward  of  working-class  houses 
has  turned  to  be  a  shipping  centre.  In  nothing  is 


186  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

this  more  clearly  seen  than  in  the  change  of  char- 
acter of  the  shops.  A  watchmaker  who  used  to  do 
business  in  a  small  way — working  into  the  night 
with  his  glass  at  the  eye  in  the,  clear  window  of  a 
dwelling-house — has  blossomed  forth  as  a  'chro- 
nometer-maker and  adjuster':  an  ironmonger's 
shop  window  gives  pride  of  place  to  palms  and 
needles,  marlinspikes  and  chest-lashings.  A  small 
shop,  where  once  a  notice  intimated  a  patent 
mangle  kept,  now  flourishes  as  an  'American  Elec- 
tric Shipping  Laundry'  (whatever  that  may  be). 
'Shipping  supplied'  is  on  every  shop  window,  and 
'Sailors'  advance  notes  cashed'  needs  no  looking 
for  among  the  sea  clothes  (bed  and  pillow  .  .  . 
15.)  and  oilskins  of  the  outfitters.  Sailcloth  may 
now  be  purchased  in  what  was  formerly  a  prosper- 
ous baby-linen  establishment. 

Withal,  the  atmosphere  of  a  sea-connection  is 
somehow  unreal.  What  right  has  a  public  park  at 
the  very  dock  gates,  on  the  spot  where  other  sea- 
ports would  have  slums  and  stables?  WThy  a  cab- 
stance — with  polished  taxis  in  a  row,  when  every 
one  knows  that  it  is  only  when  we  steam  into  the 
Salvage  Court  with  the  right  end  of  the  hawser 
aboard  that  we  can  afford  such  luxuries?  Other 
ports  have  grown  from  small  beginnings — tide- 
ways and  anchorage  to  wharves  and  quays,  and 
these  in  turn  to  docks  and  warehouses.  Here  we 
have  a  Port  of  Magnitude,  dry  docks  and  quays 
and  basinsx  cranes  and  warehouses  and  workshops, 


A  SAILOR'S  VIEW  187 

all  full-grown  and  imbued  with  a  spirit  of  life  and 
work,  and  all  ready  to  the  hand  at  a  turn  of  the 
tide  cocks  at  Eastham.  It  is  something  great  to 
think  of.  It  is  magnificent.  Surely  the  Man- 
chester man  has  reason  for  a  great  pride  when  he 
sees  the  ships  coming  to  their  berths,  when  he 
hears  the  bellow  of  a  liner  canting  on  his  High- 
way to  the  World. 


XXIV 


*"  I  AO  be  successful  as  a  ship  pedlar  not  merely 
•*•  the  qualities  of  a  keen  trader  are  required. 
The  spirit  of  the  business  having  a  more  peculiar 
quality  than  that  of  a  landward  market,  its  con- 
duct calls  for  judgment,  patience,  humour,  and  all 
that  may  be  summed  in  the  excellencies  of  a  super- 
salesman.  While  it  is  true  that  the  monetary  re- 
turns from  dealing  in  small  wares  on  the  ships  in 
harbour  would  hardly  attract  a  pushful  and  am- 
bitious trader,  it  may  be  claimed  that  the  practice 
acquired  does  train  and  produce  a  salesman — or 
woman — who,  given  other  opportunities,  could 
make  a  prosperous  way  in  almost  any  walk  of  life. 
I  am  led  to  all  this  by  recalling  the  'Oddman' 
who,  for  some  time,  did  business  aboard  the  ships 
in  Marseilles.  Claiming  to  be  English  or  Ameri- 
can as  suited  his  dealings,  he  worked  under  what 
he  called  trade  names  during  the  five  years  or  more 
that  he  was  a  known  figure  about  the  dockside. 
No  one  could  quite  fathom  his  past  history.  That 
it  was  of  interest,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  A  man 
of  considerable  education,  speaking  many  lan- 
guages, and  of  a  habit  and  address  that  marked 

188 


THE  ODDMAN  189 

a  measure  of  breeding,  it  was  a  constant  source  of 
wonder  to  us  that  he  should  be  content  to  fritter 
away  his  energies  in  the  small  ways  of  ship 
peddling.  Knowing  the  'Oddman'  pretty  well,  I 
am  convinced  that,  did  he  but  open  his  mouth  on 
the  subject,  he  would  speedily  mould  our  opinions 
to  a  conclusion  that  he  was  making  the  best  of 
everything.  He  could  sell  snow-shoes  to  a  Hotten- 
tot. 

Metaphor  is  dangerous.  I  was  going  to  write 
that  the  caprice  of  some  strange  tide  must  have 
stranded  the  'Oddman'  on  the  beach  at  Marseilles. 
A  strange  tide,  indeed !  It  comes  to  me  that  there 
is  not  any  tide  of  note  in  the  Mediterranean.  I 
must  look  about  for  a  better  simile.  The  Wheel 
of  Fortune!  Good!  He  was  a  soldier  of  For- 
tune, as  ever  was.  Let  us  put  it  that,  at  Marseilles, 
the  tyres  of  his  Fortuna  (1904  model)  were  punc- 
tured by  the  spikes  of  outrageous  fate  and  there 
was,  for  him,  nothing  to  do  but  get  off  the  driving 
seat  and  set  about  the  repair  of  his  adventure. 
This  he  did  with  skill  plus  an  incomparable  good 
humour,  for  when  I  saw  him  first,  he  was  engaged 
in  selling  highly-polished  Easter  cards  to  a  sober- 
minded  Third  Engineer, — and  if  that  is  not  a  feat 
calling  for  tact  and  address  and  humour  and  .en- 
durance, let  those  who  are  sceptical  ask  of  the  en- 
gineer's Presbyterian  relatives  who  would  doubt- 
less receive  the  'romanish'  cards  in  due  season. 

During  the  years  that  the  'Oddman'  made  his 


190  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

living  at  the  'dockside,  he  provided  us  with  ample 
subject  matter  for  discussion  and  conjecture.  When 
we  had  passed  Port  Said,  homeward  bound,  and 
the  chill  of  the  Mediterranean  had  dispelled  the 
somewhat  somnolent  atmosphere  of  our  'dog- 
watch' parliaments,  we  began  to  ponder  and  dis- 
cuss the  state  of  our  next  port  of  call,  Marseilles, 
and  to  speculate  on  the  prospect  of  our  stay  there. 
It  was  inevitable  that  the  'Oddman'  should  be  men- 
tioned, and  there  was  always  a  pleasing  sense  of 
something  new  in  store  when  we  came  to  consider 
in  what  particular  line  of  business  he  would  be  en- 
gaged. I  had  a  theory  that  he  only  held  to  a  cer- 
tain occupation  for  as  long  as  its  conduct  was  diffi- 
cult; that,  when  a  routine  of  trade  was  established, 
he  lost  all  interest  in  it.  In  a  way,  that — being  an 
artist  of  a  salesman — he  took  pleasure  only  in 
overcoming  our  sailorlike  conservatism  in  matters 
of  trade.  With  certain  of  his  wares  doing  well  and 
a  fairly  brisk  trade  being  done,  he  would  suddenly 
astonish  us  by  disposing  of  his  stock  completely 
and  launching  out  into  some  new  departure. 

I  have  mentioned  his  use  of  'trade  names.'  He 
changed  these  too  with  as  little  warning.  What- 
ever may  have  been  his  real  name,  he  was  never  at 
a  loss  for  a  high-sounding  tally.  When  he  sold 
Easter  cards  and  stereoscopic  lorgnettes,  we  un- 
derstood that  he  was  Burton.  As  a  dealer  in 
works  of  art,  his  card  proclaimed  him  Martini.  I 
knew  him  as  Mortimer  at  the  time  he  was  busily 


THE  ODDMAN 

setting  up  the  'Continental  News  and  Riviera  'Ad- 
vertiser,' an  essay  in  journalism  that  was  largely 
devoted  to  the  doings  of  British- American  society 
in  these  parts. 

I  cannot  now  recall  the  exact  argument  he  used 
to  compel  me  to  purchase  one  of  his  stereoscopes. 
It  must  have  been  specious  and  convincing,  for, 
ieven  at  this  date — coldly  and  dispassionately — I 
can  remember  many  reasons  why  I  should  not  have 
spent  so  much  money.  Item:  I  did  not  want  a 
stereoscope.  Item :  I  could  ill  afford  it.  Item :  I 
saw  no  beauty  in  the  coldly  silhouetted  perspective 
of  the  gadget.  Nevertheless,  I — and  every  one  of 
my  shipmates — bought  one  of  the  infernal  things, 
together  with  glossy  views  of  the  Pantheon,  the 
Louvre,  and  Japanese  cavalry  exercising  on  a  wide 
foreign  plain.  Burton! 

Martini!  I  remember  the  Captain's  pride  in 
the  possession  of  an  oil  painting  of  the  Massilia 
under  all  steam  which  Martini  had  procured  for 
him.  There  were  also  two  paintings  of  ladies  in  a 
duel  a  I'outrance,  and  a  whistling  beggar  boy,  and 
a  colourful  representation  of  the  Old  Port  with  a 
sky  of  the  uttermost  blue.  Whatever  may  have 
been  his  merits  as  a  salesman,  Martini  was  no 
captious  critic  of  the  arts.  But  the  plausibility  of 
the  man!  Whoo!  Doubtless,  if  he  had  liked,  he 
could  have  sold  me  highly-tinted  pictures.  Fortu- 
nately, a  trade  in  dyed  goat-skins  from  Algeria 
took  up  his  attention  (  .  .  .  I  have  two  of  them, 


192  4  BROKEN  STOWAGE ' 

good  value,  .  .  .  ) ,  and  he  did  not  ;enlist  me  as  a 
patron  of  the  high  arts. 

On  occasion,  there  would  be  an  interval  in  his 
periodic  visits  to  the  ships.  It  coincided  with  the 
latter  half  of  the  Monte  Carlo  season,  and  it  is 
more  than  probable  that  the  'Oddman'  would  be 
there — looking  in  to  see  whether  or  not  his  For- 
tuna  car  was  capable  of  repair.  In  general,  he  re- 
turned to  the  dockside  with  little  evidence  of  an 
improved  estate;  the  croupiers,  being  mechanical 
automatons,  would  be  impervious  to  his  wiles. 
After  such  visits,  he  was  more  than  ever  anxious 
to  "do  business;  his  dealings  were  perhaps  more 
precipitate  than  formerly;  it  was  even  possible  to 
procure  'bargains/ 

But  now  to  my  theory  that  he  was  ever  in  ill 
content  with  a  trade  that  seemed  in  process  of 
becoming  easy  and  lucrative.  He  abandoned  a 
business  in  Algerian  rugs  and  goatskins  that 
seemed  to  be  providing  him  with  a  considerable 
margin  of  profit.  They  were  good  rugs  and  ex- 
cellent goatskins  and,  as  they  were  brought  over 
at  no  cost  of  transport  by  the  sailors  of  the  Algiers 
steamers,  he  could  quote  reasonable  prices.  There 
were  not  even  enough  of  them  to  supply  the  de- 
mands. For  Cotter — he  was  then  Cotter — that 
fine  state  of  the  market  decided  him  to  throw  in 
his  hand.  He  took  up  employment  with  a  firm  of 
Ship  and  Engine  repairers  and  acted  as  an  in- 
terpreter in  the  difficult  business  of  translating 


THE  ODDMAN  193 

'eichtp'rts'  into  millimetres  and  supplying  an  un- 
derstandable French  equivalent  for  the  'foo-foo 
valve'  and  'the  key  of  the  keelson.' 

In  time  he  was  appointed  a  trade  runner  for  the 
firm,  to  canvass  for  business  on  the  incoming  ships. 
I  do  not  think  he  had  any  knowledge  of  the  technics 
of  marine  engineering  when  first  he  came  on  board 
as  the  representative  of  Les  Ateliers  Forgon:  I  am 
certain  that  such  glib  familiarity  with  engine  room 
terms  as  he  later  acquired  was  not  very  deep. 
When  business  offered,  he  had  his  own  way  of 
straightening  out  our  requirements.  He  would 
bring  his  foreman  from  the  workshops  and  then 
and  there  translate  the  directing  Chief  Engineer's 
done  into  the  patois  of  the  district.  He  had  no 
light  task. 

His  new  job  was  perhaps  more  entertaining  than 
the  former  dealings  in  odd  commodities.  Leisure ! 
There  was  no  great  hustle  required  after  the  morn- 
ing's round  of  the  docks  had  been  made  and  op- 
portunity frequently  offered  for  a  comfortable  seat 
on  the  Chief  Engineer's  settee  and  an  unstinted 
flow  of  conversation.  Philosophy,  Josephus' 
works,  the  Scottish  League  ties,  the  imminence  of 
social  legislation,  were  all  talked  out,  and  no  small 
amount  of  shrewd  observation  of  events  was 
voiced  by  the  'Oddman.' 

When  last  I  was  in  Marseilles,  he  was  still  on 
this  employment.  He  had  been  at  it  for  over  a 
year,  a  considerably  longer  time  than  he  had  ever 


i94  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

'devoted  to  a  specialty.  Mainly,  He  secured  tHe 
repair  and  adjustment  of  the  smaller  deck  and  en- 
'gine  fittings,  but  there  were  occasions  when  some 
stress  of  weather  brought  grist  to  his  mill  in  the 
shape  of  a  modest  contract.  As  we  understood  he 
was  paid  on  a  commission  basis,  we  could  see  no 
great  profit  accruing  to  him  from  his  business.  It 
was  difficult  to  conjecture  just  why  he  held  out  for 
so  long.  I  am  convinced  that  he  sticks  to  it  in  the 
hope  of  some  day  proving  his  merit  by  securing  a 
major  contract — say,  the  provision  and  fitting  of  a 
new  engine  bed-plate  in  record  time.  He  will  not 
consider  the  possibilities  of  this  job  to  be  exhausted 
until  he  has  overcome  the  natural  bias  of  Scots 
Chief  Engineers  in  favour  of  the  economy  of  an 
;engine  repair  completed  on  the  Clydeside. 

The  'Oddman'  talks  quite  like  a  craftsman  now. 
Knowing  the  Scottish  dialect  to  be  the  right  native 
tongue  of  marine  engines,  he  has  set  himself  to  ac- 
quire the  accent  and  the  mode  of  expression.  My 
last  recollection  of  his  ability  in  this,  is  of  a  small 
remark  he  made  when  some  adjustment  of  the  rud- 
der was  under  way.  He  had  objected  to  the  meas- 
ures proposed  (as  not  giving  his  firm  the  right 
scope  for  a  long  and  detailed  bill). 

"Chief,"  he  said!  "I  think  thae  pintles  are  a 
wee  thing  light  for  the  job !" 


XXV 

THE  'ARTS  AFLOAT,' 

A  RT  at  sea  is  an  old,  long  story:  it  began  with 
the  warm  blood  of  a  sacrificial  lamb,  smeared 
on  the  rude  sails  of  early  voyagers,  rose  to  a 
height  in  the  'greate  shippes,'  begilded  and  carven, 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  now  lingering,  exists 
in  crude  sea  pictures,  painted  on  the  lid  of  a  sea- 
chest,  in  fanciful  embellishment  of  gear  and  cord- 
age, and  in  the  tattooing  borne  on  the  bodies  of 
those  who  follow  the  sea.  In  this  lowly  form  it 
is  but  the  last  shred  of  a  vanishing  estate,  like  the 
dairymaids'  chalking  of  the  milk  pans,  the  carter's 
bedecking  of  his  horse;  it  is  a  survival  of  a  time 
when  folk  took  pride  in  their  arts  and  handcraft, 
and  gloried  in  the  labour  of  their  hands  rather 
than  in  the  hire  it  brought.  Part  of  this  may  have 
been  a  matter  of  superstition,  a  deferring  to  the 
gods  (as  Hindus  at  Saraswati  prostrate  them- 
selves and  worship  the  emblems  or  materials  by 
which  they  make  their  bread),  but  surely  that  can- 
not now  be  so.  It  could  be  no  superstition  that 
made  Owen  Evans  (skipper  of  a  'fly-boat'  on  the 
Manchester  Can.il)  have  a  presentation  of  Car- 
narvon Castle  painted  on  the  inboard  end  of  his 

195 


'196  'BROKEN  STOWAGE', 

> 

scuttle-butt  (paid  a  sign-painter  seven  shillings  to 
'do  it,  he  told  me),  for  what  harm  of  tempest  could 
befall  him,  unless  his  horse  were  to  go  lame?  And 
besides,  what  particular  saving  virtue  could  there 
be  in  Carnarvon  Castle,  however  well  designed? 
Had  it  been  a  'Mary  and  the  Child,'  like  the  pa- 
tron's steering  board  on  a  Bastia  felucca,  or  a 
bejewelled  Ikon,  like  that  they  carry  on  the  bridge 
of  a  Russian  battleship,  one  could  have  under- 
stood, but  Carnarvon  Castle!  It  was  just  that 
good  Evans  had  an  eye  for  the  beautiful,  and,  to 
the  extent  of  seven  shillings  of  his  scanty  means, 
he  was  a  patron  of  the  arts. 

Out  at  sea  we  are  no  longer  allowed  to  decorate 
our  ships;  seafaring  has  become  distinctly  a  busi* 
ness,  a  traffic,  a  trade,  with  no  call  for  unnecessary 
embellishment.  First,  the  gilt-work  on  the  stern 
was  done  away  with;  it  was  a  needless  expense; 
the  cost  was  better  put  into  timely  advertising. 
Then  the  shapely  figurehead,  symbol  of  grace  and 
elegance,  gave  place  to  an  iron  scroll,  an  affair  of 
stunted  proportions  that  sate  heavy  over  the  sheer- 
ing forefoot.  The  carving  of  a  spar  end  was  time 
wasted,  when  the  carver  might  be  more  profitably 
employed  in  scaling  rusty  bulwarks.  Then  came 
the  steamship,  gaunt  and  bare  of  ornament,  work- 
ing through  the  tides  in  feverish  haste,  an  ill  thing 
to  beautify,  a  monster  of  mechanics  whose  only 
beauty  was  that  she  floated,  and,  floating,  bor- 
rowed a  grace  of  movement  from  the  restless  sea. 


THE  'ARTS  AFLOAT'  197 

In  her  there  is  no  time  to  be  wasted;  her  short- 
voyage  crew  have  no  interest  in  their  vessel;  she 
is  strictly  a  machine,  to  be  oiled  and  greased,  and 
blacked  and  red-leaded,  but  not  to  be  embellished 
— that  would  be  labour  lost,  energy  sadly  misdi- 
rected. Still  in  odd  ways  one  sees  the  mark  of 
more  than  a  hireling  interest.  Once  I  saw  a  collier 
in  Methil  Docks;  she  was  black  and  stark,  as  only 
a  collier  can  be;  she  was  piled,  bridge-high,  at  the 
coamings  with  slatey  Scotch,  and  the  steward  was 
carrying  the  cabin  dinner  along  in  a  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, but  (whisper,  that  her  owners  may  not 
come  to  hear)  her  after  ladder-rails  were  cleverly 
cross-pointed,  and  had  neat  'turks'  heads'  at  handy 
intervals.  Some  one  had  had  a  pride  in  her,  for  it 
was  surely  the  work  of  a  watch-below;  it  was  no 
slap-up  job. 

In  the  long-voyage  sailing-ship  it  is  different. 
True,  there  is  neither  time  nor  material  for  the 
old-time  'fancy  work,'  but  if  the  Mate  is  not  too 
modern  in  his  ideas  a  little  can  be  done.  I  have 
memories  of  famous  bell-lanyards,  cunning  jobs  in 
half-hitchin',  round  and  square  sennit  and  cock's- 
combin'  that  would  have  been  beautifully  finished, 
a  credit  to  any  clipper's  poop,  but  for  something 
always  coming  in  the  way;  and  bucket  handles, 
and  shackles,  and  boat's  fenders,  and  an  albatross's 
foot  that  hung  long  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  aftdeck, 
which  (but  for  its  having  been  destroyed  by  a 
senior  in  the  interests  of  sanitation)  would  have 


198  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

made  a  most  artistic  tobacco-pouch  for  any  one 
who  smoked  shag.  That  was  in  small  ways ;  there 
is  now  no  carving  of  skids  ('The  sea  is  His,  and 
He  made  it,'  was  a  favourite  motto  in  'hard-case,' 
lime-juice  packets),  no  gilding  of  head  boards,  but, 
if  the  ship  may  not  be  'fancified,'  there  are  our  sea- 
chests  in  fo'cas'le  or  aftdeck,  a  little  rough  paint 
from  the  ship's  stores  will  not  be  missed,  and  we 
may  do  as  we  like  with  our  own. 

To  sailors  there  are  only  two  things  worth  re- 
producing in  colour  on  one's  gear  or  person.  One 
is  a  ship  under  sail,  her  flags  and  tackle;  our  hands, 
'rough  and  tarred'  as  Kipling's  chantymen's,  are 
too  rude  properly  to  portray  the  other. 

There  was  always  some  one  in  the  ship's  crowd 
a  famous  hand  at  painting  ships,  and,  as  we  are  an 
independent  folk,  many  pounds  of  hard  tobacco 
(the  currency  at  sea)  were  earned  by  his  talent. 
Earn  it  he  did,  for  it  was  nothing  easy  to  satisfy 
the  many  criticisms  of  his  shipmates.  Originality 
in  design  or  treatment  was  sternly  repressed;  there 
was  only  one  way  that  a  ship  should  be  painted  on 
the  lid  of  one's  sea-chest,  'shipshape  an'  Bristol 
fashion.'  It  was  a  lee  view,  all  sail  set,  colours  and 
distinguishing  signal  flaunting  board-like  from  the 
gaff,  and  a  lighthouse,  the  particular  one  of  one's 
fancy,  showing  an  answering  signal  in  the  middle 
distance.  Most  preferred  the  Tuskar,  for  there 
was  no  great  mass  of  land  to  take  up  the  picture, 
and,  as  the  ship  was  nearly  always  heading  to  the 


THE  'ARTS  AFLOAT'  199 

right,  it  brought  the  action  down  to  a  definite 
basis,  the  pleasure  of  a  seaman's  eye,  a  'home- 
ward-bounder,' standing  up  Channel.  Devotion  to 
detail  was  the  aim  of  the  painter.  Indeed,  it  had 
to  be,  for  his  patron  would  be  ill-pleased  if  there 
was  left  a  matter  for  sneering  shipmates  to  point 
to  with  scorn,  to  dub  'lubberly.'  Even  though  the 
ship  was  stiff  and  flat,  the  lighthouse  proportion- 
ately out  of  reason,  the  waves  woolly  and  unreal, 
the  rig  and  trim  had  to  be  beyond  question.  It  was 
a  long  job,  requiring  patience  and  perseverance. 
First  the  price  and  the  character  of  the  ship  had  to 
be  arranged  with  the  patron.  The  price  was  an 
easy  matter,  for  there  was  a  sort  of  tariff.  A 
schooner  was  cheap — two  pounds  of  tobacco,  per- 
haps, and  the  price  rose  according  to  the  rig.  A 
four-masted,  full-rigged  ship  would  run  to  about 
five  or  six  pounds,  and,  if  there  \vas  to  be  a  pilot 
boat  in  the  offing,  as  high  as  eight.  A  pound  of 
tobacco  is  value  for  two  and  six — it  is  a  'purser's 
pound/  only  fourteen  ounces.  Deciding  about  the 
ship  was  a  more  difficult  matter,  especially  with  an 
old  hand  who  had  seen  some  service  afloat.  Usu- 
ally he  would  decide  on  the  ship  with  the  biggest 
spread  of  canvas,  or  perhaps  on  one  with  a  pe- 
culiarity in  her  rig. 

"Jest  you  do  me  th'  City  oy  Florence,  young 
feller;  wot  Ah  wos  in  in  eighty- four.  One  o'  them 
ol'  City  ships,  wi'  single  mizzen  tops'l,  an'  a  slidin' 
gunter  fer  th'  skysail  pole.  Single  mizzen  togs'l, 


200  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

mind  ye,  an'  two  reef  ban's,  an'  a  gaff  fer  th'  try- 
sail on  th'  main!" 

This  was  the  order,  and  the  work  began.  The 
wood  had  to  be  prepared  and  a  light  groundwork 
put  on;  then  the  sky,  a  grandly  blue,  homeward- 
bound  sort  of  sky,  laid  on.  (Clouds  were  difficult, 
and  were  seldom  attempted.)  Then  the  ship  had 
to  be  lined  out,  and  here  began  the  painter's 
troubles.  "Now!  Wot  did  Ah  tell  ye  'bout  that 
there  mizzen  tops'l;  two  reef  ban's,  Ah  said,  an'  a 
tackle  on  th'  second  cringle.  .  .  .  'Ere,  young  fel- 
ler, look  at  that  'ere  light'us  flagstaff!  'Ow  d'ye 
'expeck  a  light'us  flagstaff  t'  stand  up  in  a  breeze 
without  stays?" 

Here  the  painter,  a  man  of  ideas,  tries  to  assert 
himself.  ..."  'Ow  could  ye  see  stays  'n  a 
light'us  flagstaff,  an'  it  two  miles  off?" 

By  this  he  would  rouse  the  wrath  of  the  fore- 
cas'le,  and  there  would  be  a  gathering  round,  and 
heated  argument. 

"Never  ye  mind  'bout  two  mile  off!  Ye  knows 
bloody  well  as  a  light'us  staff  is  allus  well  stayed ! 
Jest  ye  put  in  them  stays,  young  feller,  an'  no 
'damn  shinnanikin !" 

The  stays  go  in.  Work  goes  on  smoothly  for  a 
bit  until  some  old  hand  sidles  up  and  says,  pleasant- 
like,  "Look  a'  here,  me  son,  if  ye  wants  things  ship- 
shape, jest  ye  cut  out  a  bit  o'  th'  luff  o'  that 
tawps'l!"  The  patron  is  indignant;  here  is  some 
one  interfering  with  his  beloved  single  mizzen 


THE  'ARTS  AFLOAT '  201 

tops'l,  "with  two  reef  ban's,  mind  ye."  Then, 
'  'Ere !  Jest  you  keep  yer  adwise  till  it's  arst  for. 
Ah  ain't  goin'  t'  'ave  th'  lid  o'  my  chest  spoiled  by 
them  as  ain't  never  bin  shipmates  w'  single  mizzen 
tops'ls!" 

There  are  angry  words.  Some  one  else  breaks 
in.  "Ho,  yes!  Vs  a  fine  'and  at  spoilin'  th'  lid  o' 
yer  chest.  Why!  Look  at  mine!  There  wos  th' 
James  Baines  as  wos  t'  be,  an'  Ah  tol'  'im  plain  as 
'ow  she  clews  up  t'  th'  yard-arm,  an'  'ere  'e  goes 
an'  clews  up  t'  th'  bloody  quarter.  Rotten  bad,  Ah 
call  it!  An'  then  'e  goes  for  to  change  th'  name, 
an'  paints  in  different  colours,  an'  makes  'er  th' 
bloody  Wanderer  o'  St.  Johns,  a  ship  Ah  never  'ad 
no  use  for.  'Im!" — a  glance  of  scorn — "An'  calls 
'isself  a  bloo'dy  hartist!" 

The  poor  painter  has  a  hard  time;  it  is  an  all- 
hands  job;  even  the  Dutchman  would  have  a  word 
to  say,  and  in  the  general  chorus  his  presumption 
would  pass  unheeded  by  the  elder  men. 

When  it  was  finished  and  lay  in  a  clean  place 
awaiting  a  rub  of  stolen  varnish,  it  was  a  work  of 
technics,  if  not  of  art,  and  represented  more  faith- 
fully, perhaps,  the  cut  and  rig  of  a  ship  of  our 
times  than  Vandevelde's  wonderful  shuyts  do  of 
his. 

In  other  ways  could  this  (desire  to  'decorate  be 
satisfied.  'Shackles'  could  be  made  in  the  'watch- 
below,'  or  (if  sufficient  canvas  could  be  had)  a 
cover  for  a  sea-chest.  Covers  were  worked  of 


202         'BROKEN  STOWAGE; 

'drawn  threads,  and  the  fringes  were  tasselled  ancl 
interlaced  in  a  mode  as  delicate  and  formal  as  a 
lady's  needlework.  Not  many  were  done,  for  can- 
vas was  almost  priceless  in  a  'wind-jammer,'  and 
there  were  only  a  few,  Dutchmen  and  old  men-o'- 
warsmen,  who  could  do  it  properly.  'Shackles' 
were  sailor  handles  for  sea-chests.  This  was  a 
great  working  of  rope  and  twisting  of  yarns,  a 
'test'  in  sailorising  that  took  a  long  time  to  do ;  he 
was  considered  a  good  seaman  who  could  finish  off 
in  the  approved  manner.  (Alas!  for  the  mis- 
shapen mass,  ends  out  and  uneven,  that  I  spent  so 
many  hours  over,  and  finally,  after  a  particularly 
severe  criticism  by  a  greasy  Russ,  threw  into  the 
shakins'  cask  among  the  ends  and  leavings  of 
sailor  work.)  Shackles  were  generally  painted  in 
three  bright  colours,  hung  up  to  dry  in  odd  corners, 
forgotten,  rediscovered  when  bags  were  being 
packed  and  the  homeward  pilot  aboard,  and  were 
given  to  favoured  shipmates  or  were  left  for 
'prentices  to  quarrel  over  when  they  came  to  clear 
the  fo'c'sle  out  after  the  'crowd'  had  gone. 

Then  there  was  tattooing,  an  ancient  art,  be- 
loved of  manners  an'd  dukes  and  princes.  It  is 
•not  now  done  at  sea.  Few  of  the  modern  sea- 
men know  how  to  do  it  properly,  and  it  is  left  to 
'professors'  of  the  art  to  set  up  premises  in  Bute 
Road  and  Ratcliffe  Highway  and  the  Broomielaw 
and  Bond  Street,  W.,  where  homeward  bounders 
and  other  men  of  position  can  have  their  sense  or 


THE  'ARTS  AFLOAT'  203 

sentiments  suitably  worked  on  their  persons — 
anchors  and  clasped  hands,  hearts  and  crossed  na- 
tional flags,  crosses  and  memorial  stones.  ('In 
memory  of  mother/  I  saw  once  on  the  chest  of  a 
hard  case,  as  bawling  a  blasphemous,  uncharitable 
dog  as  ever  Shakespeare  knew.)  Mottoes  were 
often  done.  'True  till  Death'  has  a  new  sig- 
nificance when  worked  above  the  presentment  of  a 
'damsel  of  rounded  charm  and  muscular;  'Ven- 
geance' on  the  forearm  of  a  placid  Scandinavian 
was  odd;  had  he  been  a  swart  Dago  with  a  long 
sheath-knife  on  his  hip,  yes;  but  Hans  Dans!  De- 
cidedly odd. 

Once,  on  a  forehatch,  I  heard  an  argument 
about  tattooing,  a  quaint  reasoning.  "Wot's  th' 
use  on  it?  W'y!  If  ye  gets  wrecked  out  furr'in, 
an'  goes  under,  an'  gets  washed  ashore — all  broke 
up — them  wot  finds  ye  knows  by  yer  marks"  (he 
meant  crosses  or  a  figure  of  Christ;  often  done). 
"They  knows  as  ye' re  a  Christian,  an'  they  buries 
ye  decent.  But  if  ye  ain't  got  no  marks,  w'y!" 
i(the  upturned  palms  of  unanswerable  enquiry) 
"'oo  th'  'ell  are  ye?" 

These  are  the  decorative  arts.  Of  music  there 
is  less  to  be  said;  not  that  it  is  of  little  interest  or 
less  importance,  rather  because  it  is  a  more  deli- 
cate matter  to  handle.  Who,  watching  men  at 
heavy  manual  labour,  say,  hoisting  a  weight  to  a 
height,  has  not  felt  a  stirring  within,  a  desire  to 
hold  the  breath  while  the  men  pull,  an  instinct  to 


204  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

breathe  generously  when  the  pull  is  given?  That 
instinct  is  parent  to  sea-music,  to  the  'chanties'  that 
seamen  sing  when  straining  at  the  ropes,  when 
heaving,  heavy  chested,  on  the  bars  of  a  windlass. 
No  one  knows  aught  of  the  men  who  set  the  tunes 
to  the  chanties.  The  words  are  anybody's,  any 
words  may  do.  Usually  they  are  gross  and  un- 
printable, but  the  tunes  are  different.  They  are 
unchanging,  no  one  dares  meddle  with  them;  they 
are  handed  down  from  aged  salt,  about  to  hail 
his  Pilot,  to  wonder-eyed  youngsters  with  the  hay- 
seed in  their  hair.  They,  too,  are  unprintable,  but 
that  because  there  is  no  mode  of  writing  music  that 
could  properly  express  the  quick-changing  swing, 
the  quaint  indescribable  inflection,  and  the  chal- 
lenging note  that  comes  before  a  thundering 
chorus.  They  are  the  seaman's  own,  and  will  die 
with  him  when  the  sea  is  only  a  place  for  black 
smoke  and  whirling  screws. 

There  are  some  songs,  too,  sung  at  sea  and  sel- 
dom elsewhere.  Most  begin  with,  'Come,  all  ye 
jolly  sailormen,  an'  listen  to  my  song.'  The  tunes 
are  very  old,  almost  ancient,  and  they  are  usually 
sung  by  the  older  hands.  They  are  'Bound  away 
to  the  West'ard,'  The  City  o'  Baltimore,'  and 
'Henry  Martin.'  There  is  a  fine  swing  about  them, 
but  now  the  blatant  influence  of  the  'alls  is  in  the! 
forecas'le,  and  they  are  not  much  sung.  Welsh 
sailors  have  a  gift:  they  are  great  hands  at  singing 
in  parts.  They  have  a  fine  sense  of  harmony,  and 


THE  'ARTS  AFLOAT5  205 

a  man  out  of  tune  among  a  Welsh  'crowd'  would 
be  about  as  happy  as  a  soldier  in  a  Liverpool  fore- 
cas'le.  Their  songs  are  not  sailor  songs  though, 
and  may  not  be  put  down  as  sea-music. 

Dutchmen  are  rare  instrumentalists.  Never  was 
a  Dutchman  who  couldn't  play  some  humble  in- 
strument, but  their  music  is  of  the  'dans-haus' 
order,  reminiscent  of  Shkipper  Strasse  or  a  Bier- 
garten  in  Altona.  Once  I  was  shipmates  with  a 
Finn  who  played  the  fiddle.  He  used  to  play 
sailor  music.  He  would  sit  on  the  forehatch  o' 
nights  and  play  even  on  without  effort.  He  would 
make  it  up  as  he  went  along,  a  weird,  melancholy 
thing  of  his  own,  something  about  wind  and  a  black 
night,  he  would  say.  His  watchmates  thought  it 
uncanny,  and  left  him  alone.  Once  a  braggart  boy 
cursed  him  for  a  screechin'  devil.  He  was  called 
off  by  the  old  bosun :  "Don't  ee  go  vor  tu  vex  un, 
me  son;  them  Finns  hain't  vair  volk !" 

Old  Garge  thought  that  if  the  Finn  were  vexed 
he  might  raise  a  gale  of  wind  on  us  by  his  uncanny 
fiddling. 

That  was  our  music,  that  and  the  chanties,  never 
a  great  art  perhaps,  but  assuredly  an  expression  of 
deep  feeling.  Those  who  have  heard  know  it — 
those  who  have  heard  Renzo  on  a  blustering, 
windy  night,  and  the  ship  staggering  in  the  track  of 
a  gale,  or  Shenandoah  borne  over  the  water  in  the 
first  grey  flush  of  an  early  dawn. 

Poetry  has  no  beginning  at  sea;  it  is  a  borrowed 


206  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

art,  a  loan  but  lightly  treasured.  Once  there  went 
poets  to  the  deep.  They  told  of  takings  at  sea,  of 
the  sack  of  cities,  of  victories  on  the  main,  or  of 
the  deeds  of  the  great  captains.  Few  wrote  of  the 
life  they  must  have  known  so  well.  After  all,  they 
could  have  been  but  poor  poets,  since  they  and 
their  lines  are  forgotten,  while  William  Falconer 
(whose  hands  must  have  reeked  of  tar,  the  palms 
hardened  by  grip  of  shroud  and  halliard,  when  he 
wrote  his  'Shipwreck')  stands  still  a  mentor  to  his 
sea-fellows.  The  lines — 

And  he  who  strives  the  tempest  to  disarm 
Will  never  first  embrail  the  lee  yard-arm, 
The  master  &iid;  obedient  to  command, 
To  raise  the  tack  the  ready  sailors  stand, 
Gradual  it  loosens,  while  th'  involving  clew, 
Swelled  by  the  wind,  aloft  unruffling  flew, 
The  sheet  and  weather-brace  they  now  stand  by ; 
The  lee  clew-garnet  and  the  bunt-lines  ply. 
Thus  all  prepared,  "Let  go  the  sheet,"  he  cries; 
Impetuous  round  the  ringing  wheel  it  flies, 
Shivering  at  first,  till,  by  the  blast  impell'd, 
High  o'er  the  lee  yard-arm  the  canvas  swell'd; 
By  spilling  lines  embraced,  with  brails  confined, 
It  lies  at  length  unshaken  by  the  wind. 

— are  even  now  quoted  in  nautical  text-books  as  a 
standard  in  seamanship. 

The  making  of  verse  is  little  liked  by  sailormen, 
unless  it  be  a  new  rig  to  an  old  chanty  or  a  rhyming 
lampoon.  One  who  could  work  into  doggerel 
verse  the  peculiarities  of  his  shipmates  was,  in  a 
way,  admired,  though  never  popular. 


THE  'ARTS  AFLOAT'  207 

Of  another  stamp  was  Mister  Richards,  who 
had  the  next  cot  in  a  hospital  in  Monte  Video.  He 
had  been  mate  of  a  London  barque.  His  ship  had 
sailed,  and  he  was  still  laid  up — a  sort  of  con- 
sumption I  think  it  was.  He  was  a  great  reader. 
Once  he  showed  me  something  he  himself  had 
written.  It  was  about  an  old  captain  of  his,  who, 
after  a  long,  hard  time  at  sea,  had  sent  his  son  to 
the  same  service.  One  verse  was — 

The  men  who  kept  King  Philip's  Fleet  afar, 

The  mariners  who  swept  th'  Spanish  Main, 
The  men  who  won  the  fight  at  Trafalgar 

Lie  dead,  but  in  their  children  live  again, 
Who,  where  th'  British  Ensign  flaunts  th'  breeze, 

O'er  steam-press'd  power,  or  flowing  sail  unfurl'd, 
Shall  hold  high  court  upon  the  open  seas, 

And  make  an  Empire  of  th'  Ocean  World. 

Poor  Mister !  He  would  have  no  further  place  in 
the  ordering  of  that  Ocean  Empire,  for  the  Sister 
told  us — quietly,  that  he  might  not  hear — that  his 
was  a  bad  case,  that  he  was  not  like  to  go  the  sea 
again. 


XXVI 
SAILORMEN  ON  TOUR 

T  MET  them  on  the  cock  o'  the  hill  above 
•*•  Whistlefield,  just  where  one  can  get  a  famous 
glint  of  Loch  Long  with  Glenfinart  lying  broad  and 
bonny  between.  I  was  bound  over  to  Ardentinny 
and  stopped  awhile  to  rest  at  the  summit.  It  was 
a  fine  day  in  early  May.  Breezy.  Big  full-bellied 
clouds  swept  over  the  blue  and  cast  deep  shadows 
on  the  hill-side. 

While  I  rested  I  heard  voices  in  angry  alterca- 
tion. The  wranglers  were  far  down  the  glen,  but 
the  din  of  their  bicker  carried  far.  Words  were 
not  easy  to  make  out,  so  I  concluded  that  some 
tinkers  were  bound  up.  A  turn  of  the  low  road 
brought  them  to  view.  There  were  two.  They 
seemed  to  be  heavily  laden  and  walked  haltingly^ 
their  heads  cast  down,  as  if  they  were  searching  the 
roadside. 

As  they  drew  near  I  made  out  old  William 
Shaw,  sailorman  and  conning  rigger,  of  the  port 
of  Glasgow.  He  carried  a  coil  of  rope  over  his 
shoulder  and  a  large  paint-tin  in  his  right  hand. 
I  did  not  know  the  second  man.  He  looked  young. 
He  was  slight  in  build  and  walked  with  a  fine  turn 
of  the  heels  that  marked  him  a  sailor.  He  carried, 

208 


SAILORMEN  ON  TOUR  209 

a  bunch  of  paint-cans  that  made  clatter  as  he  came 
up  the  brae.  Some  paint-brush  handles  stood  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  his  blue  dungaree  clothes  were 
bespattered  with  white. 

"Hullo,  Wully,"  I  said,  "I  never  thought  of 
meeting  you  stravaiging  about  the  country-side. 
What's  this  ploy  you're  on?" 

"Hullo,  young  f'la-ma-lad — it's  you.  You  an' 
yer  bikesycical.  Goad!  I  wissht  I  hid  yin  o'  them 
masel'.  I'm  ferr  din  oot  wi'  a'  this  trampinV  He 
threw  the  coil  off  his  shoulder  with  an  impatient 
whirl,  and  sat  down  on  the  hill-side.  "Hey,  you," 
he  shouted  to  his  mate.  "Ha'e  a  look  aboot  an' 
see  if  you  can  fin'  yer  wee  gantline  block." 

"Him,"  he  added  with  scornful  emphasis,  "he'd 
lose  the  hair  aff  his  heid  if  it  wisnae  fur  his  kep. 
First  it  wis  the  pent  an'  brushes  that  he  left  at  th' 
Bullwood,  him  that  ta'en  up  wi'  th'  servant  lassies ! 
Then,  begoad,  he  be  tae  be  leavin'  Strachur 
withoot  th'  sclimbin'  irons.  Noo  it's  th'  wee 
gantline  block.  Fa'en  oot  on  the  road  atween  here 
an'  th'  Whistlefield  Inn." 

"But  what's  brought  you  up  here  with  your 
gantlines  and  blocks  and  climbing  irons?  I  never 
heard  tell  of  a  job  at  the  rigging  up  here  on  the 
hill-side." 

"Ha'e  ye  no',"  said  the  old  man.  "Ah,  weel, 
ye're  aye  learnin'.  If  ye  had  yer  een  aboot  ye,  ye'd 
see  that  it  wis  pentin'  flegstaffs  we  wis  efter.  No' 
that  bad  a  job,  neither" — clinking  money,  in  his 


210  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

pocket.  "If  it  wisnae  for  him  an'  his  wye  o'  lossin' 
things,  we'd  be  gaun  back  tae  Glesca  the  nicht  wi' 
th'  best  pairt  o'  fifteen  pun'  i'  wur  pooches.  We 
wis  ettlin'  tae  dae  a  job  at  Arranteeny  an'  feenish 
up  an'  get  ower  tae  Gourock  by  seeven  o'clock,  but 
afore  we  wis  hauf  wy  doon  th'  glen — 'Hullo,'  says 
he,  'whaur's  th'  wee  gantline  block?'  'Aye,  whaur 
is't?'  says  I.  'Ye  hid  it  when  we  got  aff  th'  man's 
cairt  at  Lach  Eck  side,  afore  we  begood  tae  sclimb 
th'  hill.'  'Weel  I  huvnae  got  it  noo,'  says  he.  'Hits 
drapped  off  on  th'  road.'  'Ye'd  better  drap  aff  an' 
find  it,'  says  I.  'Hoo  th'  blazes  can  we  dae  that  bit 
job  at  Arranteeny  wi'  nae  gantline  block.'  .  .  . 
Sae  we  jist  cam'  awa'  back  up  the  glen,  but  deil  a 
glint  o'  th'  block  hae  we  seen." 

The  little  man,  after  looking  about  casually,  had 
seated  himself  and  was  filling  a  pipe  with  black 
twist.  "Ach,  whatt's  th'  matter  now,  annyway?" 
he  said.  "Be  me  sowl,  ye  w'd  think  it  was  iverry 
panny  in  th'  wurrld  ye'd  lost,  t'hear  ye  talkin'. 
Shurre,  wit'  th'  fifteen  poun'  that  y'ure  talkin' 
aboot  we  can  buy  a  score  av  gantlin'  blocks." 

"Hark  till  'm.  A  score  o'  gantline  blocks — an' 
I'll  lay  ma  share  again'  a  happeny  there's  no'  a 
block  tae  be  had  at  Arranteeny  fur  love  nor 
money." 

"Ach,  you  an'  yerr  blocks!"  The  little  man 
kicked  the  empty  paint-cans  viciously,  and  made  off 
down  the  glen  again. 

"Haw,     Loughran!       Haw,     JeemsJ  —  haw, 


SAILORMEN  ON  TOUR  211" 

Jeemsy!"  In  genuine  'distress,  the  old  man 
shouted  on  his  hasty  mate.  "Ach,  whit  are  ye 
ta'en  on  that  w'y  for?  Ye  ken  fine  that  I'm  pit  oot 
at  no'  gettin'  on  wi'  that  job  doon-by.  Come  awa' 
back  here  an'  ha'e  yer  smoke." 

Wee  Loughran  hesitated,  stood  about  whistling 
a  while,  then  returned.  I  had  never  known  old 
Wully  to  be  so  conciliatory  before.  Clearly,  the 
little  Irishman  was  the  important  partner  in  the 
concern.  I  was  curious  to  learn,  and  asked  the  old 
sailor  how  they  carried  on  the  business. 

"Ach,  it  wis  jist  me  seein'  wee  Loughran  therr 
when  he  wis  sclimbin'  a  schooner's  mast.  It  wis 
in  the  Queen's  Dock  an'  he  wis  gaun  up  the  pole 
topmas'  jist  as  nate  as  if  he  wis  walkin'  oot  in 
Sauchieha'  Street.  Therr  wis  nae  riggin'  on  her — 
no'  as  much  as  a  bit  o'  chafin'  gear  tae  pit  yer  fit 
on — jist  yin  o'  thae  wee  Dundalk  schooners,  plain 
sticks  aboon  th'  taps.  Says  I,  therr's  th'  wee  laud 
tae  pent  flagstaffs  doon  th'  watter — a  peyin'  job — • 
I  kent  it  when  I  wis  young  an'  soupple  masel'.  Sae 
I  got  on  th'  crack  wi'  him,  an'  took  him  on  at  a 
pun'  a  week  an'  a  share  o'  th'  profits.  He's  an 
Isley  Magee  man — a  wee  bit  thrang  whiles — but 
he  can  gaun  up  th'  side  o'  a  hoose  haudin'  on  by 
hees  eyelids." 

Somewhat  mollified  by  old  Wully's  eulogy,  the 
famous  climber  had  returned  to  the  search.  He 
was  peering  diligently  among  the  stunted  heather 
at  the  roadside  for  his  lost  gantline  block. 


212  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

"I  mak'  th'  contraks  an'  mix  th'  pent  an'  tend 
th'  gantline  while  th'  wee  f'la  'daes  th'  pentin'  doon. 
Whiles,  if  it's  a  big  job, — like  auld  Captain  Mac- 
Pherson's  mast  at  St.  Catherine — I  dae  a  turn 
aloft  masel'.  Goad,  ye  sh'd  a  seen  th'  pent  we  hid 
ower  therr.  Ye'll  mind  o'  th'  Captain?  He  wis  in 
thae  auld  Quebeckers  o'  Allans.  Retired  this  fif- 
teen year  or  more.  He's  gotten  a  ship's  mast 
rigged  up  in  his  gairden.  A'  complete !  Main  tap, 
an'  lower  yaird,  an'  shrouds  an'  lifts  an'  fit-ropes  a' 
complete !  That  wis  a  big  contrack.  Power  days 
we  wis  at  th'  riggin'  an'  a  day  an'  a  hauf  pentin' 
doon — an'  a'  th'  time  th'  auld  yin  wis  stottin'  aboot 
bossin'  th'  job.  It  wis  'Main  tap,  therr — ye've  left 
a  "holiday"  ddaft  th'  kep.' — Or — 'Topmast  held, 
ahoy.  Can  ye  no*  see  that  shackle  is  pentit  black 
an'  no'  mast  colour?'  A'  th'  time  he  wis  merchin' 
up  an'  doon  wi'  his  haun's  behin'  his  back,  jist  as  he 
used  tae  dae  in  thae  auld  Quebeckers.  We  hid  a 
gey  job  o'  it,  wi'  a  wee  dram  every  nicht  when  we 
cam'  doon  frae  aloft.  It  feenished  up  wi'  wee 
Loughran  therr  forgettin'  th'  sclimbin'  irons,  an' 
us  hauf  wye  ower  tae  Strachur  afore  he  missed 
them." 

Now  I  could  see  the  smoke  of  the  E'dinbttrah 
Castle  over  the  hill  and  had  to  mount  and  away  to 
catch  her  at  Ardentinny.  I  left  Wully  and  his 
mate  still  arguing,  though  less  vehemently,  about 
the  wee  gantline  block. 

Perhaps  in  remote  future  years  some  savant  will 


SAILORMEN  ON  TOUR  213 

make  a  sensational  statement.  He  may  say  that 
the  old  folk-songs  of  his  ancestors  possess  points 
of  truth  and  actuality  in  their  legendary  embellish- 
ment !  He  may  quote — 

"On  the  heights  of  Ben  Lomond  their  galleys  may  steer." 

And  he  may  produce  as  evidence  auld  Wully 
Shaw's  wee  gantline  block  discovered  on  the  cock 
o'  the  hill  above  Glenfinart. 


XXVII 
A  CHANNEL  SUNRISE 

Holyhead  at  daybreak  we  turn  into  the 
George's  Channel,  steaming  south  with  the 
last  outrunning  of  the  ebb.  Broad  on  the  port 
beam  the  coast  of  North  Wales  looms  up,  a  dark 
rugged  mass  against  the  faint  grey  of  early  dawn. 
Holyhead's  town  lights  glimmer  bravely  against 
the  dark  of  the  land,  and,  clear  of  the  Headland, 
the  South  Stack  light  flashes  at  minute  intervals. 
Ahead  lies  the  open  channel,  its  broad  surface 
scarce  ruffled  by  a  light  east  wind.  Here  and  there 
twinkling  ship-lights  stud  the  darkling  western  sea- 
line;  astern  and  to  the  east  a  confusion  of  smoke 
wrack,  lowering  over  a  cluster  of  steaming  lights, 
shows  the  outbound  tideload  from  the  Mersey  on 
the  way  to  sea.  First  clear  of  the  pierheads  we 
lead  the  fleet,  but  our  turn  will  be  short  now.  Our 
twelve  knots  at  the  very  best  can  show  poor  heels 
to  the  two  'fourteens'  who  are  racing  up  astern; 
already  the  foremost  is  hauling  out  west  to  give  us 
sea-room  in  passing.  "After  all,  speed  isn't  every- 
thing," we  say,  looking  resolutely  ahead.  Some- 
where in  the  gloom  of  the  foredeck  'one  bell'  is 
struck.  Half-past  four!  The  lascar  on  look-out 

214 


A  CHANNEL  SUNRISE  215 

shouts  the  watch-cry,  a  long  drawn-out  Koob 
dek-ta  hai  that  sounds  all  but  wakeful.  A  gruff, 
"Aye,  aye,"  answers  the  hail,  and  the  Mate,  up 
there,  resumes  his  pacing — tap,  tap,  terap!  The 
madman's  promenade — ten  paces  and  a  turn,  ten — 
a  halt — a  sharp  order  to  the  steersman;  the  gear 
creaks  to  a  vicious  strain,  and  with  our  head 
swinging  wildly  to  sudden  helm  we  sheer  under 
the  stern  of  a  schooner,  close  enough  to  note  a 
glimmer  on  her  decks — someone  striving  to  prick 
up  an  ill-burning  sidelight. 

At  proper  course  again  we  speed  on;  the  tap, 
tap,  terap  resumed.  From  far  down  in  the  bowels 
of  the  ship  come  the  noises  of  the  stokehold  that 
tell  of  action  below,  in  contrast  to  the  quiet  of  the 
deserted  decks.  A  shovel  clangs  harshly  on  the 
footplates,  an  imperative  call  for  more  coal  to 
feed  the  throbbing  monster;  wrangling  voices,  pro- 
test and  abuse,  are  borne  up  through  the  fiddley- 
gratings,  choice  wafts  of  Bombay-babbery,  that 
only  cease  with  the  clash  of  furnace  doors  and  the 
stoker's  warning  shout  to  his  mate  at  the  back  fires. 
A  burst  of  green  smoke  rises  straight  from  the  fun- 
nel, the  measured  throb  of  the  engines  seems 
louder  to  our  ears;  we  should  do  well  now,  with 
a  fresh  gang  below  and  the  fires  cleane'd  and  set 
away. 

Un'der  the  great  glare  of  the  South  Stack  a  tiny 
point  of  light  spurting  out  an'd  in  in  sharp,  vicious 
flashes  shows  the  Morse  signalman  at  his  key- 


216  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

board,  taking  tally  of  the  ships  that  pass  by  night. 
On  the  bow  an  inward-bound  steamer  is  'wink- 
wink-winking'  a  long  message  for  the  dock  people 
at  Liverpool,  and,  south  away,  an  old-fashioned 
Johnston  boat  is  throwing  brilliant  fireballs — her 
Company's  night  signal.  No  new-fangled  talking- 
lamps  for  her  stout  old  captain.  He  still  believes 
in  guns  and  red  and  green  fireworks — a  brave  show 
to  catch  the  eye  of  a  sleepy  signalman. 

"Vick— E!  There's  that  Booth  liner  finished 
now,  and  old  'fireworks'  has  got  his  red  flare.  Call 
him  up,  mister,  and  give  our  name !"  A  new  voice 
on  the  bridge;  two  tap — tap — teraps.  The  Cap- 
tain has  come  on  deck  to  set  his  channel  course. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir!"  Our  lamp  flicks  away  at  the 
spelling,  gleaming  'longs'  and  'shorts'  on  the  bridge 
spars  and  upperworks. 

"R — D !  All  right,"  says  the  Captain,  reading 
the  answering  twinkle  ashore.  "He's  got  it.  Spell 
'Thanks' and  call  off!" 

The  Stack  has  just  time  to  acknowledge  before 
our  'next  astern'  picks  him  up,  and  again  the 
'wink-wink-winking'  goes  on — something  about 
the  weather  in  the  bay.  The  Stack  will  be  glad 
when  it  comes  daylight  enough  for  the  flagman  to 
have  an  innings.  It  should  not  now  be  long  de- 
layed; already  the  gloom  is  lightening;  and 
through  a  high  rift  in  the  misty  cloud-bank  that 
palls  the  east  keen  steel-blue  sky  shows  the  first 
break. 


A  CHANNEL  SUNRISE  217 

In  the  dim  half-light  the  near  land,  the  shadowy 
sails  of  drifting  coasters,  the  sheering,  smoke- 
wreathed  hulls  of  the  following  fleet,  take  shape 
and  colour.  The  longshore  lights,  so  late  a  galaxy 
of  radiant  points,  are  paling  to  extinction;  the  sea, 
borrowing  from  tire  lightening  zenith,  shows  a 
shimmer  of  grey,  with  patches  of  deep  shadow 
where  our  side-wave  breaks  the  placid  surface. 
Holyhead  breakwater  grows  sightly  to  the  eye, 
standing  clear  of  the  distant  shore.  A  railway 
steamer  lies  berthed  within,  with  a  curl  of  smoke 
drifting  from  her  two  shapely  funnels — the  Irish 
mail  in  readiness.  The  lighthouse  tower  standing 
bold  on  the  summit  of  the  South  Stack  shows  white 
against  a  backing  of  the  rugged  Head,  and  when  it 
is  light  enough  the  keeper  shuts  off  his  displaced 
thousands  of  candle-power.  Our  turn  of  leader- 
ship is  up  now.  In  spite  of  our  efforts  the  first  of 
the  'fourteens' — a  huge  China  trader — goes  forg- 
ing past,  giving  us  a  choking  waft  of  black,  sul- 
phurous Welsh  in  the  passing. 

Out  in  the  open  the  breeze  comes  with  the  dawn. 
A  freshening  wind  rouses  the  channel  to  sparkle, 
and  glitter,  and  play  of  light  and  shade.  The  calm 
under  the  lee  of  the  land  is  swept  by  rippling  ed- 
"dies;  the  sails  of  the  coasters  shiver  and  blow  out, 
then  stand  full  to  the  favouring  land  breeze,  and 
the  shapely  hulls  lean  away  south  across  Carnar- 
von Bay.  Fast  as  the  light  grows  the  mist  breaks 
up  and  re-forms  in  endless  fantastic  wraiths,  all 


218  /BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

aglow  with  a  tinge  of  rose  that  fades  through  violet 
hues  to  deep,  stubborn  shadows  where  the  clouds 
overhang.  Iridescent  plumes  of  trailing  vapour 
strike  out  from  the  dark  ridges  of  the  land;  the 
mist  caps  of  the  high  Welsh  peaks  are  doffed  at 
coming  of  the  day.  The  sun's  pilot-rays  turn  the 
zenith,  and  flaming  scarlet  takes  the  place  of  rose. 
Deep  azure  sky  shows  through  in  ever-widening 
patches,  and  the  night  clouds,  banking  in  the  west, 
make  a  last  sullen  stand  against  the  vanguard  of 
the  morn.  Then,  in  a  burst  of  radiant  glory,  the 
sun  comes  up,  clearing  the  horizon,  with  scarce  a 
wisp  of  windy  cloud  to  mar  his  rising. 


XXVIII 
PORT  SAID— AND  'JOCK  FERGUSON' 

Al  AHE  gaunt,  iron  light-standard,  cluster  of  low 
huts,  mosque  dome  and  minaret,  and  a 
ruined,  dismantled  fort  that  now  mark  the  site  of 
the  once  prosperous  Damietta  have  faded  away 
on  the  quarter,  sinking  back  into  the  quivering 
heat  haze  as  they  had  scarce  emerged;  and  steam- 
ing athwart  the  muddy  outflow  of  the  Nile  we 
drew  near  Port  Said — the  Half-Way  House; 
caravanserai  for  voyagers  on  the  long  sea-route  to 
the  East. 

A  high  lighthouse  rises  up  over  the  turgid  water 
— a  sightly  guiding  mark  on  the  low  isthmus  where 
the  level  desert  stands  long  unseen  from  seaward. 
Lesser  buildings,  gay  of  gaudy  paintwork  and 
fanciful  balconies,  cluster  at  its  base,  and  clearing 
the  housetops,  the  masts,  spars,  and  flags  of  ships 
in  the  harbour  stand  out.  Far  stretching  east  and 
west  the  bleak  flats  of  Balah  and  Menzaleh  lie 
bare  to  the  scorching  sun,  void  of  vegetation,  un- 
broken by  mound  or  eminence,  save  where  the  rude 
huts  of  the  Arabs  mark  the  skyline,  distorted  by 
mirage  that  shimmers  on  the  sandy  plain.  Clear- 

219 


220  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

ing  to  definite  proportions  as  we  draw  on,  the  long 
breakwater  shows  up.  Nearly  a  mile  of  solid 
masonry,  it  stretches  its  smooth  formal  blocks  out 
to  sea — a  windward  barrier  to  the  heavy  seas  that 
come  with  northerly  gales.  At  the  centre  of  the 
sea-wall  stands  a  statue  of  De  Lesseps,  a  huge 
massive  figure  dominating  the  entrance  to  the 
Canal — a  statue  with  the  'action'  of  the  polite 
gentleman  at  the  door  of  a  Polyseum.  "Walk 
this  way,  sir,"  it  seems  to  beckon.  "Suez  Canal, 
sir?  Straight  on,  sir,  and  last  turn  to  the  left!" 

Off  the  outer  buoy  we  bring  up  to  take  a  pilot 
on  board.  He  comes  off  to  us  in  fine  style,  towing 
in  the  wake  of  a  powerful  Canal  tug,  but,  to  our 
disappointment,  the  'brither  Scot'  (for  whom 
Weekly  Mails,  News,  and  Glasgow  Heralds  lie 
parcelled  up,  ready  at  hand)  is  not  our  man  this 
time.  A  lanky  Greek  boards  to  take  us  in;  a 
swarthy  Dago,  who,  though  knowing  little  Eng- 
lish, can  tell  us  the  news  of  the  day  by  'juggling' 
of  his  hands.  Slow,  to  pass  a  monster  sand- 
dredger — the  latest  from  the  Pudzeoch — we 
steam  into  the  harbour  and  lace  up  to  buoys 
abreast  of  the  Cafe  Khedivial.  As  we  are  taking 
no  coal  the  Port  Captain  has  given  us  the  favoured 
berth,  well  within  hearing  of  the  Viennese  Orches- 
tra, and  so  near  the  Boulevard  that  a  clap  of  our 
hands  would  bring  attentive  gargons  to  the  cafe 
doors. 

The  Port  Said  'queer-fellows'  in  their  boats  are 


PORT  SAID— 'JOCK  FERGUSON'    221 

gathered  at  the  buoys  to  meet  us.  Hotel  touts, 
boatmen,  pedlars,  lace-wallahs,  ship-chandlers, 
coal  agents,  they  swarm  about  us  before  our  warps 
are  run  out — a  horde  of  modern  Babylonians, 
wrangling  over  places,  shouting  shrill  trade  cries, 
praying  custom,  patronage,  or  'backsheesh'  in  a 
hundred  clamorous  tongues.  Our  decks,  for  the 
nonce,  are  turned  into  a  market-place:  portman- 
teaux and  home-like  'placks'  are  rapidly  emptied, 
turned  upside  down,  and  the  wares  arranged  atop; 
every  standard  of  ship's  furniture  is  made  to  serve 
as  booth  and  showstand — on  the  hatches,  on  winch 
covers,  deck  chairs,  everywhere,  a  glittering  as- 
sortment of  the  thousand  useless  articles  for  which 
a  sale  seems  only  to  be  found  at  Port  Said.  On 
one  hand  we  are  offered  'scarabs' — priceless  an- 
tiques (from  Brummagem)  ;  on  the  other,  Maltese 
lace,  some  real — most  Nottingham.  In  hushed 
confidential  tones  'Scotch'  whisky,  at  a  modest 
price,  is  brought  to  our  notice.  Ye  gods !  Bonnie 
Shottland  brandt!  'In  Hamburg  gemacht!' 

"Hoo  are  ye,  Mackay,"  says  a  voice.  "Auch- 
termuchty!  Ecclefechan,  an'  Mullguy!  Hooch 
aye!!" 

We  turn.  Who  is  this,  who  'dares  to  parody  a 
Man  we  Know?  Who  but  'Ferguson' — 'Jock 
Ferguson' — 'Jock  Ferguson,  b'lang  Greenock,'  as 
he  tells  us,  and  again  mutters  the  test  formula  as 
proof.  No  proof  is  needed.  'Jock,'  as  an  old 
friend,  gets  a  handshake,  and  his  fellow-pedlars 


222  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

slink  away  from  such  a  token  of  bias,  and  hurry 
off  in  search  of  greenhorns. 

"Wed,  Jock,  hoo'sa'  wi'  ye?" 

"Verrr-y  goot,  mister"  ('Jock's'  r's  are  won- 
derful). "How  you  was  yourrr-sel',  mister?  You 
want  anyt'ing  dis  time?  Turrr-kish  d'light,  cigar- 
rett.  .  .  .  Oh,  blenty  noose!  All  mafeesh  de 
Turk!  De  bloody  Sultan  got  it  de  sack!"  Here 
'Jock'  spits  vehemently,  to  show  a  free-born 
Arab's  contempt  of  Turks  and  Sultans.  "Oh,  yes! 
Blenty  trr-uble  in  Constant.  Four,  five  thous' 
beoble  kill  it.  Dey  got  a  new  Sultan  now.  .  .  . 
No !  No  monsoon  broke  yet.  Ah  wass  aboard 
'dat  Paddy  Hendisen  boat  an'  dey  tel'  me  dey  had 
fine  weather  all  de  way.  T'ree  box  cigarette,  sir? 
Nine  bob,  sir,  as  shair's  daith,  sir.  .  .  .  Oh,  well 
— seven  an'  six.  Ye're  a  'hard  case,'  Mackay. 
Ah'm  givin'  you  sheap,  for  you  all  de  time  deal 
wi'  'Jock  Ferguson' !" 

At  Port  Said  the  peculiar  circumstance  of  an 
unlimited  and  ever-changing  supply  of  visitors, 
who  stay  but  an  hour  or  more  in  the  Port,  lends 
itself  to  boundless  rogueries;  and  the  pedlars  and 
shopkeepers — 'queer-fellows'  all — reap  a  heavy 
harvest  among  the  ships,  hourly  arriving  or  de- 
parting on  oversea  voyages.  Passengers,  after 
the  experience  of  a  week  or  more  on  shipboard 
(where  all  the  buying  is  done  by  purser's  account), 
welcome  the  novelty  of  being  able  to  actually 
spend  their  money,  and  do  not  seem  to  be  greatly 


PORT  SAID— 'JOCK  FERGUSON*    223 

concerned  at  the  worthless  rubbish  that  the  pedlars 
offer. 

Chief  among  the  'queer-fellows'  who  ply  their 
nimble  tongues  at  such  a  market,  'Jock'  became 
early  alive  to  the  unsuitableness  of  his  patronymic 
— Mahommed  Dessoukeh,  no  less — to  purposes 
of  his  sort  of  trade.  Like  as  not,  he  has  never 
heard  of  Mark  Twain  and  the  real  original  'Jock,' 
but,  from  wherever  he  got  his  alias,  'Jock  Fergu- 
son, b'long  Greenock,'  he  became,  and  great  is  his 
profit.  Such  success  as  was  his  induced  others  to 
follow  his  example,  and  the  'clan'  has  grown. 
Arabs,  Greeks,  Levantines,  Jews,  Copts,  have  all 
taken  the  whim,  and  now  John  Fergusons,  Joe 
Fergusons,  Macleans,  Macnabs,  and  Mackays  are 
met  at  every  turn,  each  with  a  sorry  goose  to  cook; 
and  the  visitors  are  asked,  in  every  tongue  in 
Europe,  to  step  up  and  provide  the  stuffing.  To 
'Jock's'  broad  shoulders  it  may  be  due  that  his 
particular  alias  is  not  yet  assumed  by  any  other. 
Some  poaching  there  may  be  on  his  preserve — the 
custom  of  officers  and  engineers  on  the  regular 
liners, — but  his  business  is  pretty  safe,  as  nearly 
every  one  counts  a  purchase  cheap,  if  only  to 
hearken  to  the  quaint  jargon  that  goes  freely  with 
'Jock's'  wares.  A  specious  rogue — none  more 
plausible — 'Jock'  but  follows  the  custom  of  the 
East,  the  system  of  trading  that  brings  the  element 
of  chance — beloved  of  Asiatics — to  the  making 
of  a  bargain.  At  Port  Said  the  value  of  any  com- 


224  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

modity  is  just  exactly  what  can  be  got  for  it — 
good  reasoning — and  if  one  is  only  properly  scorn- 
ful at  a  request  for,  say,  six  shillings  for  a  box  of 
cigarettes,  'Jock'  or  his  prototype  may  come  along 
(when  the  bell  to  'clear  ship'  is  rung)  and  pocket 
two  bob  with  a  cheery  "Thank  ye,  sir!"  Six  shil- 
lings is  'asking  price,'  which  he  demands  on  the 
chance  of  his  meeting  a  'gull,'  and,  indeed,  it  is 
astonishing  how  often  he  hears  the  wings  a-flutter. 

'Jock'  makes  no  secret  of  his  trickery;  rather  he 
glories  in  it,  and  even  when  the  boot  is  on  the  other 
foot,  and  he  finds  himself  the  holder  of  worthless 
coin, — the  'queer-fellows'  take  any  currency — it  is 
with  no  great  show  of  anger  that  he  says,  "Done 
this  time,  Mackay.  'Jock  Ferguson'  too  bloody 
good  for  dam  rogue!"  After  a  turn  of  business 
on  the  saloon  deck  he  will  come  below,  chuckling 
hugely,  his  broad  cheery  face  a  study  in  elation. 

"What  now,  'Jock'?  Who  have  ye  'done'  this 
time?"  some  one  will  ask. 

"Ah  done  nobody,  but  Ah  done  goot  bizness! 
Goot  bizness,  mister!  Fella'  up  dere,  he  buy  de 
tobacco.  'How  much  ye  want  for  tin,  dis  Pioneer 
Bran'?'  he  say.  'Two  bob,'  Ah  sed,  'an'  Ah'm 
givin'  ye  sheap,'  Ah  sed.  'Two  bob,'  he  say.  'Bai 
— Jove/' "  'Jock'  has  the  tone  of  it.  "  'Bai— 
Jove,'  he  say.  'Dey  sell  dat  on  de  ship  here  for 
two-an'-six!'  'Dam  rogue!'  Ah  sed.  'Dam  rogue 
if  dey  sell  dat  tin  for  two-an'-six !  Ah'm  givin'  you 


PORT  SAID— 'JOCK  FERGUSON'    225 

sheap,'  Ah  ses.  'Ah  wan'  'dat  money  for  blay  de 
carte.'  'Bai — Jove,'  he  say.  'Dese  Arab  is  bahn 
gambler;  blay  carte,  eh?'  An'  den  he  buy  four 
tin  Pioneer  Bran' !" 

"Well,  what  about  it?  Saves  sixpence  a  tin, 
anyway!" 

uOh,  no!  He  doan'!  'Jock  Ferguson'  'a  a 
'hard  case'!  Mind,  Ah'm  tellin'  ye!  Dem  tin 
Pioneer  Bran'  wass  quarter-poun'  tin — de  ship  sell 
'm  half-poun'  tin,  ain't  it?  Dam  fool  no  look, 
saavy  de  tin!" 

But  it  is  at  barter  with  a  'brither  Scot'  that 
'Jock'  is  at  his  best.  No  turn  of  Clydeside  'pleas- 
antry' is  lost  on  him;  every  new  way  of  putting  it 
is  remarked  attentively,  to  be  brought  forth  at  the 
psychological  moment  when  a  bargain  is  to  be 
clinched.  His  'Oot  ye' — the  two  fingers  uplifted 
at  the  right  speed — is  worth  an  extra  shilling  of 
any  Govan  man's  money.  (Kam-a-rach-an-chew?' 
he  will  say,  tentatively,  to  a  newcomer  whose  face 
has  been  his  study  for  a  moment  or  more.  'Kam- 
a-rach-an-chewf  If  he  is  right:  business,  sure! 
If  wrong:  well,  if  wrong,  it  is  no  great  matter, 
for,  be  ye  of  Cumberland  or  Kamchatka,  'Jock' 
can  ask  a  fancy  price  in  the  mode  of  speech  to 
which  you  are  most  accustomed.  True,  'Kam-a- 
rach-an-chew'  is  all  he  has  of  the  language  of 
Eden,  and  is  not  even  good  Gaelic,  but  it  serves, 
like  'Auchtermuchty'  and  'Hooch  aye!'  and  'Whit 


226  /BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

rdiv  ye  think,  o'  Wee  Ma'greegor  nooT  as  an  intro- 
ductory medium,  and  that  is  the  great  thing  among 
a  horde  of  clamorous  petitioners. 

With  a  marvellous  memory  for  men  and  faces, 
'Jock'  can  place  every  Captain,  Mate,  and  Engi- 
neer in  the  regular  lines  that  go  by  the  Canal,  and 
he  is  an  accurate  registrar  of  changes  and  promo- 
tions. If  we  wonder  who  has  the  luck  to  man  the 
new  ship  that  we  met  in  the  Gulf  of  Suez,  'Jock' 
knows.  If  doubtful  of  the  whereabouts  of  a  quon- 
dam shipmate,  it  is  'odds  on1  that  'Jock'  can  tell 
us. 

"Och  aye!  Mister  Browne?  Ah  know  dat 
fella'.  He  come  troo'  three  wik'  pas'.  Sheef- 
ofsur  now — a  'hard  case' !  Smit'  ?  .  .  .  Smit'  ?" 
.  .  .  doubtfully;  there  are  many  Smiths.  Then 
his  memory  serves  him.  "Och  aye,"  he  will  say, 
"Smit' !  A  wee-fla'  .  .  .  walk  like  dis" — a  turn 
on  the  deck. — "He  leaf  de  .  .  .  two  w'yge  gone. 
No!  Ah  doan'  see  'm  come  out  no  more.  He 
owe  me  fif  shilling — a  'hard  case' !  But  dat's  al' 
right.  Bime'by  he  come  troo  de  Canal,  an'  he 
woan'  forget  'Jock  Ferguson'!  Hooch  aye!" 


XXIX 
THE  STOWAWAY  JEW 

7  I AWO  days  after  we  had  left  Suez  he  was  dis- 
•*•  covered  burrowing  in  the  coal-bunkers — a 
miserable  hunger-maddened  wretch,  haled  roughly 
to  the  bridge  to  be  seen  of  the  Captain. 

"No  spik.  No  spik,"  he  whined,  in  reply  to 
the  Chief  Engineer's  fierce  questioning  and 
threats;  "me  no  spik." 

His  clever  young  anaemic  face  looked  doubly 
pale  in  contrast  with  the  sun-tanned  seamen  about 
him.  High  temples  and  a  prominent  nose  pro- 
claimed the  Jew.  No  sea-fellow  this,  with  his 
long  shapely  hands  and  nervous  fingers. 

"A  Jew — by  thunder!"  said  the  Captain,  eyeing 
him  sternly  (as  became  a  shipmaster  about  to  be 
robbed  of  food  and  passage  money).  "Where 
d'ye  come  from,  eh?" 

"No  spik.  Me  no  spik,"  said  the  stowaway. 
Then  suddenly  he  launched  into  long  breathless 
sentences  in  high  German — with  a  great  moving  of 
his  hands.  Wiping  the  grime  and  perspiration 
from  a  heated  brow,  the  bosun,  a  stout  little  North 
German,  left  his  work  at  the  word  to  engage  the 
miserable  in  conversation — quick  talk,  with  many 

227 


228  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

strange  hybrid  oaths  on  the  bosun's  part:  then  he 
turned  to  the  waiting  Captain.  "Zay  hees  name 
vass  Albrecht.  .  .  .  He  god  no  moneys.  He 
gomes  here  on  boardt  ven  ve  vass  ad  de  buoys 
coalin' — an'  he  goes  to  de  bunkers  in.  Zay  he  vill 
vork  for  hees  bassage.  He  zay  he  blay  de  pianna, 
sir.  Dot  vass  hees  bizeness." 

"The  piano,  eh?  Gad!  We've  got  a  prize! 
Th'  piano!"  The  Captain  looked  at  the  grimy 
wretch  as  at  a  new  species  of  mankind;  then — to 
the  Chief — "Here,  Geordie.  Tak'  him  doon  th' 
stokehold — ye'er  short  o'  hands — and  see  if  he  can 
play  th'  stoker's  chorus  with  a  ten-inch  shovel." 

Pushed  and  driven  and  week-kneed,  the  un- 
fortunate lad  went  down  the  ladder,  his  taskmaster 
following.  "Ar'll  gie  ye  sumthin'  t'  eat,"  he  said 
roughly,  "but,  b'  Goad,  ye'll  wark  f'r  it,  ma  man." 

We  were  in  the  hottest  part  of  the  Red  Sea, 
steaming  south  at  the  bare  five  knots  that  was  all 
our  fainting  stokers  could  raise  steam  for.  A  light 
following  breeze  but  added  to  the  sweltering  heat 
by  stifling  ventilation  and  overcoming  the  cooler 
head  airs  that  we  made  by  progress.  Weak 
vapoury  fumes  rising  from  the  funnel  told  of 
the  state  of  things  below — bad  coal,  a  weak  crew, 
and  a  temperature  at  103°.  Now  and  then  a  gasp- 
ing fireman  struggled  up  from  the  stokehold  to  fall 
all  but  exhausted  on  the  deck,  only  to  be  followed 
and  driven  below  again  by  the  Chief.  There  is  no 
limit,  no  appeal,  on  a  short-handed  tramp  making 


THE  STOWAWAY  JEW  229 

tKe  August  passage,  and  the  half-fainting  wretch", 
breathing  curses  to  his  groans,  would  turn  again  to 
the  slavery  of  fire  and  shovel. 

Stripped  to  the  waist,  black,  with  a  reek  of  sweat 
pouring  to  his  eyes  and  scoring  cleanly  furrows 
to  his  narrow  puny  shoulders,  the  stowaway 
clambered  to  the  deck  with  strength  scarcely  left  to 
mount  the  topmost  rung.  He  had  had  an  hour  of 
the  hell  below,  plying  pick  and  shovel  under  the 
blows  and  curses  of  the  brutalised  stokehold  gang. 
Groaning  from  sheer  physical  pain,  he  held  his 
hands  to  his  throbbing  temples,  sank  bowed  to  the 
knees,  and  gazed  long  at  the  cool  quiet  'depths  of 
water  overside,  at  the  gently  rippling  sidewash  as 
the  steamer  moved  slowly  over  the  calm  sea. 

"Whaur's  that  chield  that  plays  pianny.  Coom 
oan,  wull  ye,  else  ar'll  brak'  iverry  boan  i'  yer 
boady."  The  Chief,  roaring  threats,  showe'd  his 
ugly  hea'd  above  the  gratings.  At  sight  of  him  the 
stowaway  started  affrightedly,  grasping  the  side 
rail,  with  foot  upraised  as  if  to  climb.  From  the 
bridge  the  Captain  noted  the  action,  and  saw  the 
agonised  upturned  eyes  of  the  Jew.  "Here,  ca' 
canny,  man.  Ca'  canny,  Geordie,  else  ye'll  have 
him  o'er  th'  side.  .  .  .  Let  'm  be,  Chief.  He's  no 
use  t'  you,  I  see.  .  .  .  Hi,  bosun!  Bring  that 
man  along  here.  .  .  .  Here,  you !  Hi !  Oh,  my 
God!"  ...  As  the  bosun,  shouting  in  German, 
ran  along  the  deck,  the  Jew,  mistaking  his  purpose, 
waited  no  longer.  Without  word  or  sound  he 


230  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

sprang  from  the  rail,  struck  water  witK  a  Hull 
splash,  and  the  ship  moved  on.  ...  A  second 
spash.  .  .  .  The  bosun,  finishing  his  run  with  a 
leap  to  the  rail,  paused  to  mark  the  black  strug- 
gling figure  in  a  swirl  of  broken  water,  then 
plunged  to  the  rescue. 

A  rush  was  made  to  the  bridge  by  the  sailormen 
working  on  deck,  the  Captain  and  Mate  shouting 
orders:  some  one  threw  a  lifebuoy,  the  engine 
pointer  was  rammed  full  astern,  the  helm  put 
down.  The  boat,  as  is  the  way  of  tramps,  was 
hard  bedded  in  the  chocks,  and  it  took  time  to 
sway  her  out,  man,  and  lower  her.  At  last  she 
took  the  water  and  shoved  off  on  her  errand. 
There  was  half  a  mile  to  go,  for  we  had  swung 
far  to  the  westward  on  reversed  engine.  In  the 
calm  sea  the  men  were  easily  seen — two  black 
specks  hobbling  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the 
painted  buoy.  To  us  on  deck  it  seemed  but  a 
stroke  or  two  between  the  men  and  the  buoy ;  that 
the  bosun  was  finding  it  a  long  way  we  could  see 
by  the  frequent  pauses — by  the  drag  of  the  second 
head  so  low  in  the  water.  Excitedly,  we  watched 
the  boat  approach  them,  the  rowers  urging  her 
with  a  furious  stroke  that  left  a  lash  of  white 
water  behind. 

"Right !"  A  cry  of  relief  from  the  Chief,  while 
the  boat  canted  to  her  gunwale  with  the  weight  of 
the  two  limp  figures  dragged  aboard. 


THE  STOWAWAY  JEW  231 

Steaming  'down,  we  soon  picked  up  the  boat  and 
turned  away  south  again. 

The  Jew  was  far  gone.  He  was  unconscious 
when  we  carried  him  to  a  berth  on  the  Chiefs 
settee.  The  bosun,  hard-case  hero,  was  none  the 
worse.  In  the  cool  of  the  evening  the  Jew  came 
round,  and  the  Chief  was  soon  on  the  bridge  with 
the  news. 

"All  right,  is  he?"  said  the  Captain.  "Well, 
that's  good.  Give  him  a  rest,  and  when  he's  better 
ye  can  put  him  to  some  light  work — messroom  or 
that — but  no  handlin'  now,  none  o'  that  man- 
handlin'.  Gad!  Ye  nearly  did  it  that  time, 
Geordie.  Man,  but  ye' re  a  coorse  divil !" 

"Aye,  ar's  coorse.  An'  ar  need  be  if  we're  t' 
gat  oot  o'  this  hell-hole  o'  a  Red  Sea.  Hoo  farr 
noo  t'  Jebel  Teer,  Captain,  .  .  .  t'  Jebel  Teer  an* 
that  fine  breeze  ye' re  lookin'  for?" 

Eight  days  of  the  torture  we  had,  then — to  open 
sea,  running  out  the  last  of  the  monsoon,  the  en- 
gines throbbing  merrily  under  a  full  head  of  steam, 
and  Geordie,  no  longer  the  brutal  Chief  of  the 
bloody  days  of  the  Red  Sea,  become  a  man  again 
and  hail  fellow  with  Albrecht,  the  stowaway  Jew. 
At  light  work — washing  paint,  sweeping  decks, 
fetch  all  and  carry — Albrecht  worked  his  passage, 
and  more  than  a  waif's  share  of  the  Chief's  outfit 
went  to  clothe  him.  We  got  used  to  him,  and  al- 
most looked  on  him  as  a  shipmate  before  his  voy- 


232  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

age  was  up.  At  Singapore  he  took  the.  road. 
No  one  saw  him  after  the  last  warp  was  turned. 
No  one  asks  questions  at  Tanjong  Pagar. 


A  year  later  I  crossed  hawse  with  Albrecht 
again.  It  was  at  Bombay,  at  the  Grand  National 
Bar — a  grog-shop  in  a  side  street  off  the  Fort,  the 
resort  of  bluejackets  and  soldiers,  with  a  stray 
merchantman  or  a  broken-down  English  jockey  to 
leaven  the  crowd.  At  a  piano  in  a  corner  of  the 
Bar  sat  Albrecht,  He  had  on  a  shiny  dress  suit, 
was  clean-shaven,  and  looked  prosperous.  Evi- 
dence of  his  popularity  showed  in  the  array  of  beer 
glasses  in  varying  stages  of  depletion  that  stood 
atop  of  the  piano.  A  bluejacket,  at  request  of 
'shipmates  all,'  rose  to  sing,  and  crossed  over  to 
the  piano  to  arrange  for  an  accompaniment.  As 
the  easier  way,  he  whistled  a  snatch  of  a  doleful 
but  popular  air.  Albrecht  had  learned  a  little 
English.  "Oh,  ya-as,"  he  said,  "Ah  know  dot. 
You  brik  de  nose  mil  mudder,  aind't  it?" — strik- 
ing into  a  fanciful  accompaniment  to  the  sailor's 
rendering  of  the  ballad,  'You'll  break  the  news  to 
mother' 

As  his  fingers  wandered  over  the  keys,  I  noticed 
a  strip  of  flesh  plaster  on  the  back  of  his  deft  right 
hand.  Evidently  Albrecht  had  worked  another 
passage! 


XXX 

THE    MERRY    ANDREW 

AWN  of  a  grey  November  morning,  a  misty 
wind  from  the  south-east  bringing  scent  of 
the  damp  earth  and  mouldering  leaves  aboard,  as 
we  enter  the  Manchester  Canal,  with  the  Merry 
Andrew  steaming  valiantly  astern.  She  is  an  old 
boat  that,  the  stern  tug  that  took  our  ropes  at 
Eastham;  an  old  boat  with  an  old,  weather-beaten 
skipper,  who  stamps — tap,  tap — on  the  crazy 
bridge  deck,  a  signal  to  the  man  below  to  come 
ahead  with  his  engines. 

A  long  string  of  barges  towed  by  a  business- 
like tug-boat  is  making  for  the  smaller  lock,  and 
our  pilot,  grumbling  loudly  at  their  inconvenient 
manoeuvres,  decided  to  'ease  down.'  Three  blasts 
of  the  steam-whistle,  which  the  Merry  Andrew 
feebly  repeats;  the  old  skipper  stamps  with  his 
heel — tap,  tap,  tap, — and  with  both  paddles  re- 
versed and  a  cracking  of  the  stern  hawsers  the  old 
craft  tears  up  the  water  and  makes  the  foam  fly 
in  a  gallant  effort  to  take  the  'way'  off  our  vessel. 
It  takes  some  power  to  arrest  the  momentum  of 
eleven  thousand  tons,  and  the  Merry  Andrew  does 
her  best;  the  old  skipper  seems  to  be  quite  proud 
of  her  behaviour  as  we  barely  clear  the  sheering 

233 


234  'BROKEN  STOWAGE,' 

barges.  One  'blast'  from  the  bridge,  and  we 
steam  smoothly  on  past  the  misty  woods  and 
yellow  gorse  of  Eastham,  the  high  banks,  and  the 
bleak  Mersey  flats,  where  a  few  shivering  sheep 
are  huddling  in  the  sheltered  places,  too  deeply 
weather-bound  to  heed  the  liner  surging  past.  At 
Ellesmere  the  small  craft  moored  to  the  wharves 
tighten  up  their  fastenings  with  a  vicious  jerk,  and 
seem  as  if  they  would  like  to  follow  us  up  the  hill 
to  the  distant  city.  As  we  take  the  'ugly  curve'  at 
Runcorn  the  children  on  their  way  to  school  catch 
sight  of  us,  and  loud  and  gleeful  are  the  shouts 
'  from  the  canal  banks.  Here  is  a  fine  sight  before 
school-time;  something  stirring  to  begin  the  day 
with.  The  big  liner  is  interesting,  of  course,  with 
her  crew  of  grinning  'blackies,'  but  for  them  the 
centre  of  attraction  is  the  stern  tug — their  old 
friend  the  Merry  'Andrew.  What  matters  that 
her  smoke  escapes  from  apertures  undreamt  of  by 
her  designers,  that  her  thin  steam-whistle  is  wheez- 
ing always,  that  her  stem  is  twisted  out  of  perpen- 
dicular and  her  timbers  started  at  the  butts?  To 
them  she  is  the  embodiment  of  maritime  grace  and 
elegance,  for  has  she  not  two  tall  funnels,  while  the 
big  ships  have  only  one!  With  gleeful  shoufrs 
they  run  along  the  banks.  "Merry  Andr — a, 
a-hoy!  Ahoy,  the  Merry  Andr — a!  What's  thy 
carg — ah?"  The  old  skipper  waves  a  hand  in  ac- 
knowledgment and  their  cries  follow  us  as  we 
round  the  bend. 


THE  MERRY  ANDREW  235 

"What's  thy  cargo?"  shouted  the  children,  a 
timely  question  to  ask  of  an  old  sea-rover,  and,  by 
the  sea-stained  bulwarks  and  rusty  ribs  of  her,  a 
gallant  cargo  enough.  Of  old  memories  and  salt- 
sea  sentiment;  of  sad  farewells  and  tear-stained 
faces  at  the  pierheads  as  the  tall  ships  crept  sea- 
ward in  her  wake;  of  sailor  shouts  and  hoarse 
orders,  a  rousing  sea  'chantey'  as  the  yards  went 
creaking  to  the  masthead  and  sails  were  trimmed 
for  the  long  board  to  the  south'ard;  a  cargo  of 
joyful  mariners  welcomed  back  to  home  waters,  of 
glad  shouts  at  the  dock  gates  when  she  had 
dragged  the  rusty-ribbed  wanderer  into  port. 

A  cargo  to  be  proud  of,  though  the  years  have 
brought  the  Merry  Andrew  to  the  lowly  duties  of  a 
stern  drag  on  the  Ship  Canal. 

The  mist  is  gradually  deepening  into  a  fog  as 
we  approach  Latchford,  and  our  progress  is  slow 
and  wary.  Time  and  again  the  Merry  Andrew 
has  to  back  away  to  keep  us  off  the  banks,  and  the 
dense  smoke  pouring  from  her  battered  funnels 
tells  of  the  strain  on  her.  We  meet  an  outward- 
bound  steamer  at  an  awkward  part.  It  is  a  tight 
fit  for  two  'fifty- footers'  in  the  narrow  waterway, 
and  there  is  much  churning  of  foam,  cracking  of 
hawsers,  and  shrill  'tooting'  of  whistles  before  we 
'draw  apart  and  proceed  on  our  ways.  Bitter  cold 
and  all,  the  pilot  mops  his  heated  brow  and  signals 
for  the  Merry  Andrew  to  follow  on  again. 

The  fog  grows  denser,  and  the  mournful  wail 


236  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

of  our  syren  finds  "dismal  echo  as  we  pass  under 
the  dripping  bridges.  At  Rixton  a  coasting 
steamer  passes  us  with  unseemly  haste,  taking  two 
of  our  fenders  and  the  best  of  our  paint  down 
stream  with  her.  This,  with  the  fog  and  waning 
'daylight,  decides  our  pilot  to  tie  up  at  Partington 
for  the  night.  Slowly  we  make  our  way  to  the 
bank,  guided  by  the  rumble  of  wagons  at  the  coal- 
tips.  In  answer  to  our  hail  a  boat  puts  off  and 
takes  the  warps -ashore,  and  amid  shouting  from 
the  'bridge'  and  bank  and  clatter  of  straining 
winches  we  heave  alongside  and  make  securely 
fast.  Some  one  shouts  from  forward — "That'll 
do,  the  Merry  Andrew;  lie  off  an'  stand  by  for 
daylight  in  the  morning!"  An  answering,  "Ay, 
ay!"  from  somewhere  in  the  gloom,  and  at  three 
taps  of  the  old  skipper's  heel  the  Merry  Andrew 
backs  away  and  vanishes  into  the  mist  astern. 

Next  time  we  bore  up  for  Eastham  the  familiar 
old  'seahorse'  was  not  there  to  meet  us.  A  stout 
and  serviceable  craft  with  a  brass-bound  skipper 
and  the  beam  of  a  young  Cunarder  took  our  ropes. 
No  one  seemed  to  know  quite  what  had  happened 
to  the  Merry  Andrew,  but  a  pier-hand  mentioned 
that  he  had  seen  a  familiar-looking,  black-and- 
white  funnel  among  some  'scrap'  on  the  Garston 
beach  last  time  he  was  over  seeing  his  wife's  sister's 
'usband. 


XXXI 
AN  'ERCTIC  VOYAGE 

OR  some  time  I  had  noticed  that  old  Wully 
Shaw  was  missing  from  the  stand.  The  cor- 
ner of  the  Loch  Line  sheds,  where  the  odd  men  and 
riggers  stood  about  waiting  for  employment, 
looked  somehow  less  familiar  without  the  weather- 
beaten  face  and  sturdy  figure  of  the  old  sailorman. 
I  wondered  if  at  last  he  had  found  the  race  too 
swift  for  him.  Some  years  had  gone  since  we 
were  shipmates  together,  and  Wully  was  then  well 
on  in  age. 

Skelly  McNaught,  another  old  shipmate,  gave 
me  a  courteous  wink  as  I  went  by  one  day,  so  I 
stopped  to  ask  how  things  were  doing. 

Rotten  bad,  he  said.  He  told  me  he  hadn't 
done  a  hand's  turn  at  the  'tred'  since  the  last 
French  barque  had  come  in  from  New  Caledonia 
— and  that  was  a  month  bye.  As  evidence  of  such 
hard  case  he  fumbled  with  his  empty  pipe.  I  was 
touched  to  see  an  old  shipmate  so  far  down.  He 
brightened.  I  asked  him  about  old  Shaw. 

"Ach,  Wully,"  he  said.  "He's  got  a  fine  job, 
now.  I  wissht  ther  was  mair  o'  them.  They're 
diggin'  a  new  dock  doon  at  Bylie  Shearer's  auld 

237 


238  'BROKEN  STOWAGE', 

slip,  an'  Wully  his  gotten  a  watchman's  job.  .  .  . 
Sets  a'  th'  gate  in  a  wee  hoose  an'  watches  th'  tool 
chests,  an'  sees  that  thae  wee  bandy-leggit  Kel- 
vinha'  weans  disnae  steal  th'  men's  denners  oot  o' 
ther  jaiket  pockets.  .  .  .  Whiles  he's  on  the  nicht 
shift.  .  .  .  Gantin'  ower  a  guid-gaun  fire  or  ha'en 
a  bit  crack  wi'  th'  nicht  polis'.  .  .  .  Ye  s'ud  gain 
in  an'  see  th'  auld  yin  if  ye're  doon  that  wye.  Thae 
navvies  that's  diggin'  th'  dock  will  no'  listen  till  his 
yarns.  He'll  be  gled  tae  hae  a  crack  wi'  wiselike 
folk." 

This  I  promised  to  do,  but  many  things  came  in 
the  way,  and  it  was  only  when  a  dry-docking  job 
took  me  down  the  Pointhouse  Road  at  an  un- 
earthly hour  of  the  morning  that  I  remembered  old 
Wully,  and  looked  in  at  the  railway  gate  as  I 
passed. 

There  he  was,  crouching  over  a  fine  red  fire,  the 
ruddy  glare  of  it  lighting  up  his  keen  old  face,  now 
lined  and  seamed  by  the  years. 

"Ye're  therr,"  was  all  he  said  by  way  of  greet- 
ing, but  it  had  a  Clydeside  significance  of  its  own. 

I  sat  down  by  him  on  the  shiny  bench.  There 
was  a  chill  wind  from  west  and  the  fire  was  need- 
ful. A  row  of  blackened  tea  cans  stood  in  front 
of  the  blaze,  warming  up  for  the  men  who  were 
working  by  a  glare  of  lights  at  the  water's  edge. 
I  had  plenty  of  time.  Across  the  river  I  could  see" 
the  vessel  that  was  to  come  out  of  dry  dock  before 
we  could  go  in.  She  was  not  yet  afloat. 


AN  'ERCTIC  VOYAGE  239 

We  talked  awhile  of  our  voyages,  of  gales  and 
fogs  and  that.  I  said  something  about  navigation. 

"Man,"  said  Wully,  "you  fellies  think  ye  ken 
a'  aboot  it.  As  sune's  ye  get  a  bit  step  up  th' 
ledder  therr's  nae  holden  ye  in.  See  us  a  bit  o' 
paper  an'  a  pencil,  says  you,  an'  I'll  tell  ye  whar 
we  are.  Ye' re  jist  ups  wi'  yer  sextan' — an'  therr 
ye  hiv  it.  ...  I  min'  wanst  I  made  a  voyage  tae 
th'  west'ard.  It  wis  in  th'  Glenbelmar.  She  wis 
a  new  boat  .  .  .  jist  up  frae  Russels  at  th'  Poart 
— an'  we  wis  gaun  oot  tae  Montreal  in  ballast. 
The  Captain  o'  her  was  one  o'  ye  fancy  navigators. 
Ay  workin'  awa' — 'dancin'  roun'  aboot  the  compass 
— squintin'  up  at  th'  sun  through  wee  bits  o'  glesses 
— dunt,  'dunt,  duntin'  wi'  th'  deep-sea  lead  every 
time  we  cam'  within  a  hunner  mile  o'  land.  .  .  . 
Whit  is't  ye  ca'  that  wye  o'  daein',  when  ye  steer 
awa'  up  tae  th'  'erctic  on  th'  coorse  tae  America? 
.  .  .  First  ye  gang  tae  th'  nor'west  .  .  .  then 
west.  Syne,  be  Goad,  ye  steer  sou'west  tae  mak' 
th'  land." 

"Oh!  That  will  be  Great  Circle  Sailing.  The 
shortest  way  between  two  points  on  the  globe." 

"Ou  aye.  Ye've  got  it  a'  aff  fine.  Great  Circle, 
;eh!  Shortes'  way.  Huh!  Shortest  way  is  richt. 
.  .  .  Weel,  we  set  aff.  It  wis  the  summer-time  an' 
we  hid  fine  weather  tae  begin  wi'.  Syne  it  got 
cauld  an'  caulder.  Goad !  amaist  f reezin'  an'  hit 
July  month.  The  Captain  wis  ay  layin'  it  aff  tae 
th'  Met  whit  he  wis  gaun  tae  do — an'  whit  he  wis 


240  'BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

no'.  He  would  talk  by  th'  'oor  aboot  th'  time  tHat 
wis  lost  at  sea  through  the  want  o'  proper  naviga- 
tion. Hit  jis  wants  thinkin'  oot  he  w'd  say.  Goad! 
he  wis  a  warmer.  .  .  .  The  auld  Met  was  yin  o' 
thae  yins  that  canna  keep  a  job:  he  took  ower 
mony  o'  his  observations  through  tumbler  bot- 
toms. A  guid  sailorman  though." 

A  shrill  engine-whistle  at  the  gate  brought  the 
old  man  to  his  feet.  He  unbolted  and  threw  wide 
the  boards  to  allow  a  small  bogie  engine  and  a  line 
of  trucks  to  enter.  In  passing,  the  engine-driver 
handed  out  a  billet  of  wood  with  a  cord  becket 
attached. 

"Ye  see  I'm  a  bit  o'  haun'  wi'  th'  figgers  m'sel," 
said  Wully,  as  he  hung  the  billet  up  on  the  wall  of 
his  hut.  "Them's  for  tallyin'  the  loads,  a'  plain 
sailin'.  .  .  .  Ou,  aye,  we  wis  gaun  oot  ta  th' 
west'ard  in  th'  Glenbelmar.  Weel — syne,  we  got 
in  amang  th'  ice  when  we  wis  aboot  five  days  frae 
th'  Tail  o'  th'  Bank.  Big  humplocks  tae.  That 
wis  a'  richt  's  long  as  it  wis  clear  weather — we 
could  see  whit  tae  dae;  but  afore  lang  th'  fog  cam' 
doon  an'  the  gem'  stertit.  It  got  thicker  an' 
thicker  an'  us  gaun  slow  an'  stoppin'.  Th'  Cap- 
tain wis  nae  fule,  for  a'  he  wis  so  ta'en  up  wi'  his 
fancy  navigation.  Man,  he  hid  th'  turn  o'  haund- 
lin'  th'  boat,  an'  he  twistet  her  aboot  as  if  she  wis 
meant  tae  be  sail't  that  wye.  It  wis  slow,  an'  stop, 
an'  astern,  an'  aheid,  till  th'  engineers  below  wis 
ferr  crazy.  When  we  got  intil  th'  thick  o't,  we 


AN  'ERCTIC  VOYAGE  241 

could  hear  the  bergs  plunkin'  an'  crackin,  a'  aboot 
us. 

"Syne  we  got  oot  o'  th'  ice-field,  but  th'  fog 
still  held  on.  Day  efter  day  th'  Captain  wis  oot 
dodgin'  wi'  his  sextan'  an'  his  wee  bit  gless,  but  th' 
fog  wis  ay  too  much  for  him.  We  wis  fourteen 
days  oot  when  he  stopped  her.  'Get  th'  lead  over, 
mister,'  says  he.  'We  maun  be  somewhere  aboot 
th'  Straits  o'  Bellisle,'  says  he.  We  duntet  an' 
duntet  till  we  got  aboot  eichty  fathoms.  'That'll 
do,'  says  he.  'We'll  wait  till  it  clears.' 

"Th'  next  mornin'  it  clears  up  a  wee.  Awa' 
aheid  o'  us,  we  could  see  th'  land.  Therr  wis  no' 
much  tae  go  by,  hit  bein'  misty  an'  a  turn  o'  thin 
rain,  but  the  Captain  hid  it  that  he'd  made  guid 
his  landfall.  Therr  wis  a  break  i'  th'  coast  up  tae 
th'  norrard.  'Bellisle,  fur  a  fiver,'  says  he,  stottin' 
up  an'  doon  th'  bridge — as  pleased  as  could  be.' 

"A  very  good  landfall,  too,"  I  said,  rising  to  go. 
The  tugs  at  the  dry  dock  were  smoking  up,  getting 
ready  to  drag  the  now  floating  steamer  to  her 
berth.  I  would  have  to  hurry  on. 

"Haud  on  a  wee,"  said  Wully,  putting  a  re- 
straining hand  on  my  arm.  "Ye've  gotten  plenty 
o'  time.  They  havnae  got  th'  caisoon  up  yet.  I 
ken  that  caisoon.  Mony's  th'  time  I've  waitet  t' 
ma  hauns  an'  feet  wis  blue  at  that  Number  Yin 
Doak.  She'll  no'  stir  oot  o'  that  for  hauf  an'  'oor 
yet.  Haud  on  till  ye  hear  th'  'pant.' 

"It  wis  clearin'  up  fine.      We    saw    a    fishin' 


242  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

schooner  in  under  th'  land.  'Starboard,  you,'  says 
he.  I  wis  at  th'  wheel.  'We'll  go  in,'  says  he  to 
th'  Met.  'We'll  go  in  an'  ask  th'  schooner  for  the 
bearin'  o'  Bellisle  lighthouse.' 

"We  drapped  doon  till  th'  schooner  wis  within 
hail.  'Ahoy!'  says  the  Captain.  'The  schooner, 
ahoy!'  says  he.  'Can  ye  give  me  th'  bearin'  an' 
distance  t'  Bellisle?' 

"The  man  that  wis  steerin'  th'  schooner  looked 
up,  bewildert  like.  .  .  .  'Bellisle,'  says  he.  'Did 
yew  saay  Bellisle,  Captain?  .  .  .  Hully  smoke! 
Bellisle's  a  hunner  an'  ten  mile  t'  th'  south'ard.'  " 


XXXII 
A  RUN  IN 

"T  EE  fore  brace,  the  watch  there,"  shouted 
•^  the  Mate,  with  a  curse  at  the  fickle  wind 
that  was  bearing  us  from  our  course.  "Tail  on, 
ye  idle  hounds.  Tail  on  an'  haul." 

Quickly  the  watch  mustered  at  the  call,  and  the 
yards  were  hauled  forward  to  a  fresh  south  breeze, 
a  head  wind  for  Liverpool — our  port  of  purpose. 

The  Shirley  was  homeward  bound,  twenty-six 
days  out  from  New  York.  So  far,  winds  had  been 
fair  and  strong,  and  we  had  made  our  landfall — 
Tory  Island — as  if  steered  to  a  hairsbreadth,  but 
now  our  luck  was  out.  Under  shortened  sail,  the 
Shirley  was  turned  to  marking  time,  sailing  tack 
and  tack  off  the  entrance  to  the  North  Channel. 
And  to-morrow  would  be  Christmas  Eve — the  day 
when  we  had  fondly  hoped  to  be  strutting  on  Liv- 
erpool streets  with  our  women-folk,  a  twelve- 
months' 'pay  day'  in  our  pockets. 

"What's  th'  odds,  anyway?"  said  the  bosun. 
"More  days  more  dollars,  ain't  it?" 

The  bosun,  being  a  Nova  Scotiaman,  could 
afford  to  be  philosophic,  but  we,  who  had  dreamed 
of  wives  and  bairns  greeting  us  on  the  quay  and 

243 


244  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

bearing  us  home  in  triumph,  looked  glumly  at 
great  ragged  storm-clouds  banking  in  the  sou' west. 

"Head  winds  an'  half  a  gale,"  continued  our 
Job's  comforter.  "I  guess  yew  byes  won't  see 
yewr  homes  this  side  o'  th'  Noo  Year.  Y'  kin 
make  up  yewr  minds  f'r  Chrismas  on  salt  water 
agen.  Salt  horse  an'  Liverpool  pantiles  f'r  yewr 
Chrismas  dinner,  I  reckon — after  all  yewr  guff 
'bout  turkeys  an'  roas'  goose  an'  plum  duffs  an' 
that." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  so  bad  's  all  that,  bosun,"  said  Joe 
Buttle,  who  was  :ever  hopeful.  "Th'  grub  ain't 
half  bad,  an'  mebbe  th'  ol'  man'll  give  us  a  tot  o' 
grog  f'r  a  merry  Christmas.  Mebbe  we'll  'ave  a 
fair  win'  as  '11  roll  us  up  t'  th'  Langton  Pier'eads  in 
no  time." 

"Mebbe.  Mebbe  thar  ain't  'alf  a  gale  o'  win' 
behind  them  clouds;  mebbe  this  'ere  barque  kin 
go  'ead  t'  win';  but  one  thing's  sure,  ol'  hoss.  Yew 
won't  get  no  tot  o'  grog  out  o'  this  ere  starvation 
packet.  There's  them  aft  there  as  kin  keep  th' 
cork  in  th'  bloody  bottle.  My  oath!" 

With  a  half-laugh,  the  bosun  turned  away  to  his 
quarters,  leaving  us  to  talk  of  'slants'  and  'chances.' 

The  short  midwinter  day  had  drawn  to  a  close. 
Out  on  the  lee  bow  the  Innistrahull  Light  showed 
up  across  the  darkling  waters.  The  wind  was 
freshening,  and  already  the  Shirley  was  hammer- 
ing at  the  short  Channel  sea,  casting  icy  sprays 
over  the  bows.  Away  in  the  south  we  marked 


A  RUN  IN  245 

steamers'  lights  crossing  the  Channel,  unhindered 
by  trick  of  wind  or  weather.  Oh,  that  we  too  had 
a  rattling  screw  at  the  stern  of  her  to  drive  us  on 
to  our  hearts'  desire,  in  spite  of  the  vexing  wind! 
In  twos  we  paced  the  decks,  stamping  feet  and 
trapping'  our  arms  for  a  meed  of  warmth  in  the 
bitter  weather.  The  night  turned  misty,  then  rain 
fell,  at  first  in  a  thin  drizzle,  but  strengthening  to  a 
lashing  downpour  as  the  clouds  broke  away  from 
the  misty  south.  The  Channel  lights  shut  out  from 
our  view,  the  horizon  narrowed  to  a  near  circle  of 
heaving  water.  It  was  typical  southerly  weather, 
portent  of  a  sore  storm  battering  before  we  won 
into  port. 

Nearly  eight  bells,  the  Mate  ordered  us  to  'see 
all  clear  for  going  about,'  and,  when  the  other 
watch  joined  us  on  deck — "All  hands — 'bout  ship" 
was  the  cry.  In  a  burst  of  savage  rain  we  manned 
the  braces  and  swung  the  great  yards  when  the 
order  came,  but  there  was  no  cheerful  echo  of  a 
hauling  song  as  we  bore  back  on  the  stiff,  half- 
frozen  ropes.  At  the  wind  again  on  the  other  tack 
(steering  back  on  the  line  our  keel  had  already 
ploughed)  we  were  sent  below,  and  turned  into  our 
damp  and  cheerless  bunks  with  a  last  sleepy, 
"Hard  lines." 


"Ahoy — oi — oi — ahoy !    Turn  out,  you  sleepers 
there!     Turn  out!     Ahoy — oi — oi — ahoy!" 


246  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

We  had  been  scarce  asleep  it  seem  eel  before  our 
turn  was  up,  and  there  was  John  Collins  of  the 
other  watch,  thundering  with  his  fists  on  the  lid  of 
a  sea-chest  and  calling  us  to  turn  out.  "Ahoy,  you 
sleepers  there!"  he  roared.  "Turn  out  an'  see 
wot  th'  starboard  watch  kin  do  f'r  ye !  One  bell 
gone — an'  th'  barque  pilin'  along  afore  a  fine  fair 
win' !" 

'Fair  wind.'  That  did  it.  At  first  we  thought 
it  a  trick  to  rouse  the  deadheads — but  no.  As, 
half-slept  and  shivering,  we  rolled  out  and  put  foot 
to  the  deck,  we  knew  by  the  reeling  of  the  hull  that 
it  was  right — a  fine  fair  wind.  "Gad !  She's  roll- 
ing home  all  right.  When  did  it  come,  Collins?" 

"Oh,  soon  after  you  Jonahs  went  below.  'Ow 
'd'ye  expek  a  fair  win'  we' en  you  wos  on  deck?" 

Skipping  through  the  forecastle  door  in  time  to 
escape  a  flying  sea-boot,  Collins  returned  on  deck, 
and  we  hurriedly  buckled  on  our  sodden  weather 
harness  and  went  out  to  relieve  the  watch.  All 
hands  were  in  fine  spirits,  and  talking  assuredly  of 
a  'home'  Christmas.  The  change  had  come  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly. 

"We  'ad  no  end  o'  wind  an'  rain  at  first,"  said 
one  of  the  starbowlines;  "rotten  cold  rain  too,  sleet 
a'most,  an'  then  th'  win'  slips  back  inter  th'  west. 
'Good  iron,'  says  we,  an'  now  it's  blowin'  arf  a 
gale  from  th'  nor'west,  an'  she's  smokin'  along  f'r 
th'  Mersey  bar.  Keep  'er  goin',  me  sons,"  he 


A  RUN  IN  247 

said  as  he  threw  off  his  glistening  oilskins  and  pre- 
pared for  needed  sleep. 

'Smoking  through  it,'  she  was — reeling  along 
south  under  a  press  of  canvas.  Captain  Lewis  was 
great  for  'crackin'  on'  when  a  course  could  be 
made,  and  the  Shirley  was  staggering  with  all  sail 
she  could  carry.  Running  down  the  Irish  Lights, 
the  wind  blowing  strong  and  true,  we  sailor-folk 
had  little  to  do  but  reckon  our  pay  and  make  plans 
(that  fared  no  further)  as  to  how  we  might  best 
spend  our  money.  Dawn  of  Christmas  Eve  broke 
on  us  as  we  reeled  past  the  Chickens  o'  Man,  run- 
ning swiftly  before  the  strong  gale  from  nor'- 
west.  Old  Man  Lewis  stepped  up  and  down 
the  poop,  rubbing  his  hands  in  high  good  humour, 
and  pausing  now  and  then  to  admire  the  set  of  his 
to'gallans'l,  stiff  and  straining,  each  drawing  a 
famous  load.  At  times  he  would  slap  the  taffrail, 
shouting  aloud — "Into  it,  old  girl.  Get  into  it  I 
tell  'oo." 

The  surly  Chief  Mate  was  in  his  glory.  From 
first  grey  break  of  day  he  had  been  at  our  heels, 
man-driving  for  all  he  was  worth.  Strangely,  we 
were  keen  to  do  his  bidding  on  this  the  last  day  of 
his  hectoring  and  bullying.  At  his  direction  we 
cleared  the  anchors  for  service,  and  thought  little 
of  it  when,  at  our  miserly  'dinner,  a  burst  of  green 
water  came  spurting  into  the  forecastle  through 
the  opened  hawse-pipes. 


248  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

Sixty-four  miles  from  Chickens  to  the  bar,  and 
at  a  rate  of  knots  we  rode  down  the  stormy 
leagues,  and  soon  the  plunging  Lightship  came  into 
view.  A  stout  little  steamer,  showing  the  red  and 
white  of  pilots  on  station,  came  out  to  meet  us,  but, 
though  the  wind  was  lessening,  the  sea  ran  over- 
high  for  boat  service,  and  the  most  they  could  do 
was  to  steer  ahead  of  us,  showing  the  way.  At 
this,  we  had  to  shorten  sail  in  order  to  keep  a  rear 
position. 

Hot-foot  from  the  south'ard  a  tug-boat  bore  up 
to  us,  seeking  a  tow,  but  we  had  the  wind  right  for 
the  Mersey  Channel,  and  Captain  Lewis — canny 
Welshman — would  only  promise  the  tugman  a  job 
in  the  river.  Formby  Lightship,  fretting  at  her 
stout  cables,  was  passed  before  the  sea  was 
smooth  enough  for  our  guide  to  lower  a  boat  and 
send  a  pilot  aboard  us. 

"Egad,  Captain,"  said  the  pilot  as  he  clambered 
aboard,  "you're  in  a  hurry  for  your  Christmas 
pudding,  by  the  pace  you're  going.  You  gave  us 
all  we  could  do  to  keep  ahead  of  you.  Are  you  for 
dockin'  to-night?" 

"Iss.  Iss,  indeed — if  they  haf  got  a  berth  for 
us  in  the  dock.  My  owners  will  be  lookin'  for  us. 
They  would  get  my  signal  from  Malin  Head." 

Old  Lewis,  already  in  his  well-creased,  long- 
shore clothes,  was  as  eager  as  the  rest  of  us  to  set 
foot  ashore. 

"All  right,  Captain.    You  can  get  some  of  the 


A  RUN  IN  249 

canvas  off  her  now.  Tops'ls  will  be  spread  enough 
for  bringing  up  in  the  river." 

Rounding  the  last  of  the  Lightships,  the  Mersey 
river  opened  out — a  scene  of  animation  that  held 
keenest  interest  for  us.  Majestic  liners  lay  an- 
chored off  the  Stage  awaiting  their  turn  to  land  or 
embark  passengers;  coasting  steamers  backed  out 
of  the  half-tide  docks,  turned,  and  sped  away  to 
sea  on  their  errands;  huge  cargo  vessels  swung  to 
the  ebb  outside  the  dock  gates  attending  the  tide; 
bustling  tugs  and  ferries  stood  across  and  up  and 
down  the  fairway,  turning,  canting,  backing,  draw- 
ing to  the  piers  and  out  again,  like  the  scurry  of  an 
unsettled  brood.  Steam  everywhere,  and  belching 
smoke;  not  a  sailing  ship  in  the  river  but  ourselves; 
no  fine  spars  to  draw  a  sailor's  eye;  no  clean-cut 
clipper  stems  sheering  in  this  tideway.  We  had 
only  a  short  glimpse  of  the  land  scenes  for  which 
our  eyes  had  longed.  Already  the  sun  had  gone 
to  the  west,  and  lights  were  springing  up  on  ship 
and  shore.  As  we  came  by  New  Brighton,  the  sky 
behind  was  aglow  with  the  promise  of  a  fine 
Christmas  day. 

In  the  river,  the  wind  that  had  brought  us  so 
bravely  in  fell  light,  and  Old  Lewis  was  forced  to 
accept  the  services  of  the  tug  that  had  first  spoken 
us.  Dearly  would  he  have  loved  to  bring  his 
barque  to  her  anchor  under  sail — to  show  the 
liner's  people  that  there  were  yet  a  few  seamen 
afloat, — but  the  press  of  river  traffic  and  short 


250  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

berths  to  anchor  in  mack  that  a  risky  manoeuvre. 
So,  steering  in  the  wake  of  the  Kate  Jolife,  we 
stemmed  the  fast-running  ebb,  and  soon  our  an- 
chor was  fast  bedded  in  English  ground. 


At  midnight,  when  Liverpool's  bells  were  ring- 
ing out  the  Message,  we  hove  up  our  anchor  and 
were  towed  into  dock. 

"A  Merry  Christmas,  Captain,"  yelled  the 
Dockmaster  through  his  megaphone  as  we  drew 
on  to  the  pierheads.  "A  Merry  Christmas  to  ye, 
and  ye're  just  in  time." 


XXXIII 
"HI!     PADD— AAY!" 

a  daelin'  man  's  daelin',  an'  a  man 
interferes  wit'  a  daelin'  man  whin  a  daelin' 
man's  daelin,  a  daelin'  man's  got  th'  roight  to'  give 
'im  a  bit  av  a  clip  av  a  crack  wit'  a  slip  av  a  bit  av 
a  sthick,  d'ye  moind!"  Thus  Paddy,  when  the 
Birkenhead  longshoremen  (wickedly,  and  of 
malice  aforethought,)  stowed  a  number  of  the  old 
man's  trading  parcels  along  with  packages  marked 
BOMBAY  and  KARACHI  in  the  hold  of  the 
Australia.  True,  their  rough  pleasantry  was  dis- 
covered in  time — before  cargo  was  blocked  up  in 
the  'tween  decks, — and  Paddy  was  able  to  imple- 
ment his  contracts  and  deliver,  seriatim, — 

(a)  Two  boxes  of  Lifebuoy  soap  and  a  pack- 
age of  matches  to  the  order  of  the  'Thoid  Affisur.' 

(b)  A  writing  pad,  envelopes,  a  Bee  clock,  a  tin 
of  bianco  and  a  pair  of  braces,  all  consigned  to 
the  'Surgint.' 

(c)  An  ironclad  watch  (duly  repaired)   and  a 
guaranteed  gold-cased   albert   for  the   Fifth   'In- 
gineer.' 

All  were  duly  delivered;  but  the  loss  of  his 
goods,  however  temporary,  meant  much  more  than 

251 


252  '  BROKEN  STOWAGE ' 

a  mere  loss  of  profit  to  Paddy.  His  concern  would 
be  of  that  nature  that  looks  forward  to  possibilities 
— to  ultimate  results.  Being  myself  of  an  imagina- 
tive turn,  I  could  read  into  the  old  man's  mood  as 
he  stood  about  in  the  starboard  alleyway  and  pon- 
dered his  commitments.  I  could  conceive— 

(a)  his  concern  about  the  matchless  and  soap- 
less  condition  of  the  Third  Mate; 

(b)  the  dismay  with  which  he  contemplates  the 
absence  of  braces  on  the  person  of  the  Surgeon; 

(c)  his  utter  despair  in  realising  that  (though 
his   misfortune)    the   Fifth   Engineer  might  con- 
ceivably turn  out  late  for  his  watch  in  the  engine 
room. 

Happily,  there  was  no  need  for  the  old  man  to 
lose  his  sleep.  Under  pressure  from  the  head  fore- 
man, the  dockers  restored  the  abstracted  packages 
and  all  was  well,  and,  in  connection  with  the  inci- 
dent, there  only  remains  a  memory  of  the  famous 
statement  in  which  Paddy  expressed  his  view  of  the 
sacred  rights  of  property,  and  propounded  a  novel 
law  of  free  and  unrestricted  trade.  From  that 
same  statement  a  text  might  be  drawn;  a  text  to 
[expose  Paddy's  character  and  his  views.  Be  it 
noted,  the  savage  and  lucid  insistence  with  which 
he  eases  off  the  safety-valve  of  his  righteous  indig- 
nation. The  ferocious  dentals  of  it!  "Whin  a 
daelin'  man  's  daelin',  an'  a  man  interferes  with'  a 
daelin'  man  whin  a  daelin'  man  's  daelin' — "  His 
opening  might  well  serve  as  a  model  preamble  to 


"HI!    PADD— AAY!"  253 

any  high  enactment;  but  it  is  in  his  claim  of  penalty 
that  one  may  feel  the  lessening  sense  of  injury,  the 
influence  of  mercy  that  not  all  laws  contemplate. 
It  is  wonderfully  graduated.  The  stirring  indict- 
ment that  is  almost  like  a  severe  and  summary  pun- 
ishment in  itself, — toning  down  by  its  excess  of 
qualification  to  a  "bit  av  a  clip  av  a  crack"  with  a 
"slip  av  a  bit  av  a  shtick."  Finally,  there  is  the 
measure  submitted  for  your  approval — the  kindly 
interrogation  of  your  concurrence. 

Of  all  the  dockside  pedlars  who  did  business  on 
the  fringes  of  the  East  Float  at  Birkenhead,  Paddy 
stood  out  as  possessed  of  the  most  original  turn 
of  mind — not  alone  in  the  ways  of  trading,  but  in 
matters  of  habit  and  outlook.  His  business  was 
to  him  much  more  than  a  mere  method  of  earning 
his  daily  bread;  he  brought  an  artistry  to  his 
'dealinY  that  placed  him  above  the  ruck. 

While  the  chemist's  boy,  with  a  rounded  black 
tin  sample  case  over  his  shoulder,  confined  his  trad- 
ing to  the  appeal  of  the  white  lettering  on  his  box, 
or  to  brief  intervals  in  the  perusal  of  a  penny 
'blood'  (he  being  but  a  hireling  employed  by  the 
week),  Paddy  impressed  his  personality  on  poten- 
tial customers  by  a  conversational  ability  that 
might,  under  proper  direction,  have  earned  him 
fame.  I  have  known  many  professional  'enter- 
tainers' who  had  not  a  third  of  Paddy's  ready  wit. 
An  original!  Trading  was  to  him  no  lowly  state 
of  thraldom,  no  soul-destroying  solicitation,  no 


254  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

mum  catch-ha'penny  business  of  handing  in  a  card 
and  awaiting  a  result.  He  would  ever  have  a  big 
speaking  part  in  the  drama  of  life.  Everything 
that  happened  within  his  ken  was  sufficiently  im- 
portant for  discussion.  The  doings  of  his  neigh- 
bours (invariably  unfriendly)  in  the  lowly  dockside 
street  in  which  he  lived,  the  interference  of  the 
police  in  such  innocent  'divarsions'  as  gambling  and 
'up  and  down'  fighting  and  wife  beating, — were  all 
subject  matter  for  interested  comment.  The  open- 
ing afforded  for  receipt  of  orders,  if  skilfully  and 
discreetly  veiled,  was  always  there — with  Paddy 
fingering  the  soiled  leaves  of  his  penny  note  book 
and  ever  and  anon  moistening  the  tip  of  his  'black- 
lead'  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

His  particular  business  ?  Well !  Paddy  kept  no 
shop  nor  did  he  believe  in  making  the  rounds  of 
the  docks  heavily  laden  with  an  assortment  of 
samples.  His  way  of  trading  was  to  establish 
standard  brands  that  called  for  no  tentative  sub- 
mission for  approval.  Not  that  he  was  at  all  con- 
servative— he  would  accept  orders  for  anything 
and  everything — but  rather  that  his  interest  in  our 
well-being  might  be  accepted  by  his  purveyal  of  the 
best.  In  the  years  of  Paddy's  trading,  he  fulfilled 
a  service  that  was  keenly  required.  Ships'  officers 
had  then  little  leisure  in  the  daytime.  Practically 
no  day-leave  could  be  obtained  from  the  ruthless 
Chief  Mate,  and  the  engineers  were  as  steadily  em- 
ployed in  their  department.  The  gangway  was 


"HI!    PADD— AAY!"  255 

'forbidden  ground  until  the  longshoremen  had 
stopped  work  after  covering  the  hatchways  in  the 
slipshod  Mersey  fashion.  Then, — then  was  not 
the  time  to  be  shopping  and  carrying  parcels :  was 
not  Vesta  Tilley  at  the  Empire  or  George  Formby 
at  the  Argyle? 

Paddy,  with  his  soiled  notebook  stepped  into 
the  breach  and  did  much  to  advantage  the  few 
hours  of  our  leisure  ashore.  Major  and  minor, 
our  needs  were  served  by  his  ready  acceptance  of, 
all  manner  of  commissions.  Doubtless  he  made 
good  profits — for  we  were  never  close  buyers  and 
were  always  prepared  to  make  allowance  for  the 
drudgery  of  carriage  on  the  dockside,  away  from 
the  shopping  centres, — and  the  most  of  our  'de- 
mands were  for  common  goods  and  plain:  but,  on 
occasion,  Paddy  might  safely  be  entrusted  with  a 
difficult  charge.  If  your  Aunt  Maria  had  im- 
posed upon  you  a  commission  to  purchase  a  parro- 
quet  in  Bombay — and  the  distractions  of  that 
pleasant  port  had  succeeded  in  driving  her  instruc- 
tion from  your  mind, — Paddy  could  save  your  face 
and  aid  in  maintaining  intact  that  little  remem- 
brance in  Aunt  Maria's  last  will  and  testament.  At 
the  word  'go,'  he  would  proceed  across  the  river 
to  the  bird-market  and  procure  for  you  the  very 
specimen.  He  knew  something  about  them  too 
and  would  rarely  be  taken  in  by  the  dealer's  spe- 
cious warrantry. 

Adept  at  stage  management,  he  would  carry  his 


256  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

purchase  aboard  in  some  state  at  the  very  busiest 
hour,  just  to  show  the  dockers  (his  inveterate 
enemies)  that  he  was  a  man  in  whom  confidence 
was  reposed  by  their  superiors.  It  was  perhaps 
the  same  motive  that  governed  his  execution  of  the 
minor  commissions  that  may  be  summed  up  in  the 
combination  of  'soap  and  matches.'  Delivery  of 
these  he  deferred  until  the  afternoon  of  sailing 
'day.  Amid  all  the  hurry  and  rush  of  getting  the 
ship  ready  for  tide  time,  Paddy — with  his  many 
bundles,  brown  paper  and  loose  strings  hanging 
[everywhere  they  could  hang, — stood  out  as  a  man 
of  affairs.  It  flattered  his  sense  of  importance 
that  he  should  be  there  at  the  last  finishing  off,  with 
the  dockers  stowing  that  long-mislaid  consignment 
of  hoop-iron  and  old  John  and  his  mates  trying  to 
coax  a  nervous  race  horse  to  enter  the  stall  in  which 
to  take  a  standing  passage  to  Bombay. 

In  the  matter  of  'side-lines,'  Paddy  had  many. 
While  it  is  true  that  he  had  an  aversion  to  carrying 
heavy  samples  about  with  him,  his  innate  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things — his  originality  perhaps, — 
suggested  an  easier  and  more  attractive  method  of 
displaying  his  finer  wares.  Except  when  one  of 
the  many  crises,  that  frequently  overcame  him,  was 
in  process  of  development,  he  dressed  rather 
smartly  and  had  a  way  of  passing  his  hand  over  his 
chin  to  draw  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  he  had 
shaved  well  and  truly.  In  the  fold  of  his  neck-tie 
he  would  display  a  modest  stick-pin,  from  wing  to 


"HI!    PADD— AAY!"  257 

wing  of  his  waistcoat  there  would  perhaps  be  an 
albert  of  some  pretensions,  with  a  gilt  badge  or 
two  strung  up  in  the  exact  centre — those  chaste 
shield  designs  that,  awarded  for  prowess  in  five-a- 
side football  tournaments,  are  much  affected  by 
very  young  engineer  officers. 

As  opportunity  offered,  Paddy  would  maybe 
draw  a  quite  good  Waltham  or  Riversdale  watch 
from  his  pocket,  scan  the  time,  and  present  the 
timepiece  for  your  inspection.  The  jewellery  and 
valuables  were  no  heirlooms,  no  greatly  treasured 
possessions.  For  but  a  modest  turn  of  profit,  the 
old  man  was  prepared  to  shed  all  or  any  integral 
part  of  his  magnificence. 

I  did  not  care  to  see  Paddy  in  the  days  of  his 
prosperity  such  as  these,  knowing  as  I  did  that  they 
portended  a  temporary  suspension  of  business  and 
many  regrettable  incidents  in  the  old  man's  way  of 
life.  The  rounds  of  his  activity  were  so  clearly 
defined  by  his  appearance  that  it  called  for  no 
great  effort  of  thought  to  establish  the  exact  season 
of  his  affairs. 

Let  us  begin  with  the  spring  of  his  accustomed 
cycle — the  days  after  a  long  period  of  revelry  and 
subsequent  idleness.  For  a  time  he  haunts  the 
wings  of  his  work-a-day  stage — he  hangs  around 
the  shed  doors  or  loafs  furtively  about  the  cargo 
skids,  as  though  summoning  all  his  courage  to  face 
the  footlights  of  publicity.  There  is  maybe  a  day 
.or  two.  of  this.  Then,  pulling  down  the  front  of 


258  'BROKEN  STOWAGE ' 

his  waistcoat — setting  his  hat  a-trim,  he  comes 
over  the  gangway,  shewing  an  unusual  nervous- 
ness as  though  not  quite  sure  that  permission  to 
board  would  be  granted.  He  eyes  the  quarter- 
master on  duty  there  with  a  wildly  apprehensive 
look.  He  crosses  the  decks  quickly  to  avoid  the 
frankly  mirthful  eyes  of  such  of  the  dockers  who 
have  jobs  at  the  hatchways.  Once  in  the  officers' 
alleyway,  a  small  measure  of  assurance  may  re- 
turn to  him. 

"Shure  now,"  he  may  say  to  himself,  ".  .  . 
th'  ship  's  been  away  frum  thim  parts  for  a  mont' 
or  two.  They  '11  nat  be  afther  knowin'  I  Ve  been 
on  th'  ran-dan!"  Confiding  soul!  He  does  not 
know  that  his  doings  have  been  the  talk  of  the 
waterside  for  many  days ! 

He  carries  no  bag  or  parcel;  his  clothes  are 
dusty  and  ill-fitting;  his  chin  shews  the  stubble  of 
perhaps  a  week's  growth.  Paddy  is  'down  on  his 
luck.'  Gone — the  display  of  cheap  jewellery. 
Gone — the  alert  and  confiding  air  with  which  he 
was  wont  to  start  his  'daelin' !  Gone — the  self- 
assurance  that  mustered  a  counter-quip  for  every 
scornful  remark  of  the  dockers.  With  a  whimsical 
half-smile,  he  goes  around  to  see  what  can  be  done 
to  rebuild  his  credit.  He  is  in  process  of  'steadyin' 
up !  Not  yet  the  'daelin' s'  in  expensive  articles. 
Capital  has  first  to  be  acquired  by  small  transac- 
tions— trade  is  limited  and  confined.  A  few  orders 
for  'soap  and  matches'  are  taken, — there  is  rjer- 


"HI!    PADD— AAY!"  259 

Haps  a  whispered  suggestion  on  the  matter  of  a 
small  loan,  ".  .  .  t'  kaape  me  roight  wit'  th' 
daelers  as  I'm  a-daelin'  by!" 

His  summer  comes  and  Paddy  remains  clear- 
headed and  active.  He  has  worked  up  through 
'soap  and  matches'  to  the  more  profitable  lines  of 
writing-pads,  electric  torches,  Bee  clocks,  and  the 
cheaper  grades  of  fountain  pens.  He  washes  daily 
and  his  chin  is  kept  at  a  moderate  degree  of 
smoothness.  The  small  loans  have  been  repaid — 
with  an  interest  of  milesian  compliment.  His  step 
is  jaunty  as  he  comes  along  the  dockside.  The 
'ould  bag' — recovered  from  the  pawnshop — re- 
sponds to  his  grip,  and  no  longer  he  eyes  the 
quartermaster  apprehensively  as  he  steps  over  the 
gangway.  He  faces  up  to  the  dockers  with  every 
bit  of  his  old  'back  chat.'  "Arrah,  yes  omathauns,'* 
he  will  shout,  at  an  appearance  of  their  candid  in- 
terest, ".  .  .  did  yes  nivir  in  ye'r  loife  'do  a 
day's  worrrk  loike  me?" 

Autumn!  I  call  it  autumn  because  the  season 
approaches  the  fall  of  his  good  estate.  Doubtless 
Paddy  thinks  it  the  time  of  his  life.  If  he  were 
a  scholar,  he  would  acclaim  the  period  as  the 
perihelion  of  his  orbit — the  zenith  of  his  progress 
through  an  uncertain  cycle  of  time  and  circum- 
stance. Things  go  well.  He  has  invested  in  a 
suit  of  super-sporting  cut.  Jewellery?  He  has 
£ven  rings  on  his  fingers,  all  of  which  he  is  pre- 
pared to  discard  in  the  processes  of  trade.  On 


26o  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

busy  days,  he  employs  a  small  boy  to  bear  a  han'd 
with  the  parcels.  He  nods  patronisingly  to  the 
quartermaster,  and  glares  defiantly  at  the  dockers 
when  he  comes  aboard.  He  is  no  longer  content  to 
put  through  a  small  order  from  the  butler  or  chief 
baker;  he  deals  only — as  he  will  tell  you — "wit'  th' 
Affisurs." 

We  do  not  learn  at  first  hand  what  happens  to 
the  old  man  in  the  winter  of  his  accustomed  round. 
He  wanes  perceptibly  before  the  total  eclipse. 
There  are  indications  of  an  abnormal  state  in  his 
irregular  attendance  at  the  dockside  and  in  certain 
lapses  of  memory,  not  amounting  exactly  to  care- 
lessness. Then — for  the  first  time  in  perhaps  a 
year  or  eighteen  months — he  comes  no  longer  to 
the  ships. 

I  have  seen  him  occasionally  at  this  crisis  in  his 
affairs;  a  distant  view  of  a  familiar  figure,  sham- 
bling in  the  by-streets.  Paddy  en  deshabille  is  not 
a  very  pleasant  sight.  His  disappearance  from 
the  scenes  of  his  trading  splendour  is  marked  by  a 
crop  of  rumours.  In  most  of  the  stories,  we  do 
not  recognise  the  old  man  as  we  know  him.  In 
some,  however,  there  is  his  distinct  trade  mark  of 
unique  originality. 

While  the  money  lasts  Paddy  'does  things  on  a 
scale  of  prodigality.  His  debauch  is  no  swinish 
devotion  to  sleep.  The  foreman  of  the  'dockers 
told  me  he  had  seen  the  old  man  having  his  'dinner 
in  fine  style.  As  a  measure  of  home  discipline  per- 


"HI1    PADD— AAY!"  261 

haps,  He  ha'd  ma'de  his  wife  set  out  the  table  with 
a  clean  cloth  in  the  middle  of  the  Shore  Road  at 
Seacombe.  Lorries  and  trucks  and  waggons  with' 
goods  for  the  Float  went  splashing  by  in  the  mud, 
whilst  his  wife  tip-toed  in  the  slimy  puddles  to 
serve  him  chops! 


XXXIV 
AT  OLD  QUAY 

A  T  Old  Quay,  by  Runcorn  Bridge,  there  is 
•*•  ^  mooring  space  for  large  vessels  overtaken  by 
fog  or  nightfall  in  their  passage  of  the  Ship  Canal. 
Between  Eastham  and  Latchford  there  is  no  other 
place  where  they  will  lie  quietly  until  daylight 
comes  again,  and,  when  the  short  winter  days 
draw  to  a  close,  the  pier  hands  at  Old  Locks,  hear- 
ing the  hoarse  note  of  a  deep-waterman's  whistle 
beyond  the  bends,  lay  their  heaving  lines  in  readi- 
ness and  stand  by  to  earn  a  modest  half-crown  by 
running  the  steamer's  hawsers  to  the  mooring 
posts. 

On  a  chill  afternoon  in  late  October,  waning 
daylight  and  an  untimely  tide  at  Eastham  send  us 
to  this  'lie-by,'  and  before  dark  we  are  well  fast  to 
stout  iron  bollards,  the  only  standards  of  the  sec- 
tion that  will  hold  a  weighty  ship  against  the  surge 
and  indraft  of  passing  craft.  As  we  come  to,  the 
light  is  fast  fading  from  the  western  sky.  Across 
the  bleak  Mersey  flats,  where  screaming  gulls  circle 
and  wheel,  the  town  of  Widnes — gaunt  and  grimy 
in  broad  of  day — has  assumed  a  less  forbidding 
aspect  under  the  last  feeble  rays  of  the  wintry  sun. 
The  harsh  rigid  outlines  of  works  and  factory,  the 

262 


AT  OLD  QUAY  263 

smouldering  waste-heaps,  the  stark  unsightly  rows 
of  brickwork,  are  mellowed  in  prospect  by  the 
evening  mist,  and  the  great  pall  of  overhanging 
smoke  wrack  merges  kindly  into  a  grey  curtain  of 
advancing  night.  The  arches  and  high  castellated 
towers  of  Runcorn  Bridge  stand  warm  in  colour 
against  the  clear  northern  sky,  then  deepen  to  a 
sombre  grey,  and  that  in  turn  to  sharp  black  sil- 
houettes as  the  light  fades  and  it  is  dark. 

Lights  spring  up  on  the  river  banks,  shimmer- 
ing, reflected  in  the  stream  that  moves  surely  and 
silently  in  flood  to  cover  the  sandbanks  and  the 
water  road  to  Warrington.  Out  in  the  river  chan- 
nels the  black  shadows  of  sails  pass  by — barges 
'drifting  lazily  on  the  tide,  for  the  wind  has  fallen 
away  with  the  sun's  setting.  Sailing  lights  mark 
their  progress,  faint  green  flickerings,  for  such  as 
should  show  the  red,  lie  anchored  or  aground 
awaiting  the  sluggish  tide  to  lift  their  laden  keels 
and  bear  them  seaward.  Near  at  hand,  in  the 
Canal  dockyards  and  workshops,  the  clang  of  busy 
hammers  and  rattle  of  machine  tools  strike  a 
strenuous  note,  in  contrast  with  the  silence  of  our 
'deserted  quay.  Their  great  working  lights  cast 
glare  and  shadow  on  the  surface  of  the  water, 
throwing  into  vivid  relief  the  fleet  of  tug-boats  and 
barges  that  lie  awaiting  their  turn  of  repair. 
From  down-stream  a  weedy  whistle  sounds,  and 
soon  the  Dublin  boat  comes  slowly  by  the  bends — 
thumping  with  her  great  side  paddles  and  churn- 


264  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

ing  the  Canal  to  a  white  froth  and  foam.  She  is 
a  picturesque  old  Irish  ruffian  with  a  fine  smell 
of  cattle, — the  lowing  of  a  close-packed  herd 
comes  from  her  as  she  steers  cautiously  on  her 
night  passage  to  Manchester.  Our  mooring 
hawsers  creak  to  a  steady  strain  when  the  draft 
comes.  We  move,  a  foot  or  so,  till  the  stout  ropes 
and  firm  quay  fasts  hold  their  own.  Old  Quay  can 
hold  us :  we  lie  still  again ! 

Six !  With  a  suddenness  that  marks  a  day's  toil 
thankfully  over,  the  clamour  at  the  dockyards 
stops.  The  working  flares  go  out  and  we  hear  the 
clatter  of  the  workmen  as  homeward,  talking 
noisily,  they  tramp  through  the  lanes.  A  low 
rumble  of  carts  passing  over  the  cobbles  marks  the 
last  load  brought  in:  gates  are  swung  to  with  a 
decisive  jar,  and  the  dockyard,  so  late  the  scene 
of  vigorous  action,  stands  black  and  silent.  After 
work — the  play.  On  vacant  land  by  the  arches  of 
the  bridge  a  glare  of  light  springs  up.  There  are 
the  'wakes' — roundabouts  and  swings,  ringboard 
and  shooting  galleries — getting  ready  for  an  eve- 
ning's business,  and  the  strident  notes  of  'A  Lassie 
from  Lancashire,'  brazenly  orchestral,  are  borne 
on  the  wind  to  us.  The  buttresses  of  the  high 
bridge  come  to  relief  in  heavy  masses  of  light  and 
shadow  as  the  arcs  of  the  fair  spread  their  glow: 
jets  of  white  steam  spurt  from  the  power  engine 
of  the  roundabouts — a  moment — and  the  shrill 
whistle  reaches  us, — but  these  notes  of  .ecstasy 


AT  OLD  QUAY  265 

'(space  bars  to  the  orchestrion's  bellow)  are  but 
trial  essays  at  present,  for  the  Runcorn  folk  will 
be  busy  at  their  evening  meal. 

It  is  now  half-flood,  and  a  messenger  comes 
clog-clamping  over  the  flags  to  warn  us  that  he  is 
"lattin'  th'  water  oot  o'  th'  canal."  For  that  we 
shall  have  to  heave  tight  our  stern  fasts  and  bind 
her  to  the  Quay.  From  upstream  and  down 
barges  and  fly-boats  assemble,  sheering  into  the 
Old  Lock  with  shouting  and  fending  and  pushing 
of  long  poles.  The  lockmaster  herds  them  into  his 
fold  with  a  fine  touch  of  raillery.  "Coom  on, 
there.  Coom  on,"  he  shouts  to  a  laggard  barge- 
man. "If  tha  doan't  look  aout,  tha'll  be  looked 
(locked)  aout." 

With  a  creak  of  tense  chain,  the  lock  gates 
swing  to :  the  masts  of  the  barges  and  black  fun- 
nels of  their  escorts  sink  slowly  beneath  the  quay 
wall,  as  the  lockmaster  drains  to  the  level  of  the 
fast-deepening  river.  Anon,  the  outer  gates  arc 
opened,  and,  marshalled  by  their  fussing  tug-boats, 
the  barges  steer  into  the  river  channel  and  wind, 
a  procession  of  blinking  red  lights,  under  the 
arches  of  the  bridge.  Others  take  their  places  in 
the  locks,  entering  from  the  river.  The  lock- 
master  sees  to  it  that  here  is  economy  of  water 
and  power.  The  inward-bound  barges  are  less 
in  number  than  the  craft  just  cleared  to  the  river; 
there  is  still  space  for  a  flat  or  two  at  the  low  end 
of  the  locks.  Unheeding  the  impatient  hail  of  the 


266  4  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

bargemen,  he  stands  at  the  lockhead  watching  the 
'dim  sailing  lights  of  a  few  flats  that  are  beating 
up  against  the  light  breeze  now  set  in  from  the 
south-east.  Back  and  across  they  go,  tack  and 
tack,  taking  the  most  of  the  windward  running  tide. 
It  seems  long  ere  the  foremost,  with  a  great 
rattling  of  sail  and  cordage,  bears  into  the  gate- 
way and  heaves  her  lines  ashore.  Now  the  lock  is 
crowded,  with  only  a  foot  or  two  of  gleaming 
water  showing,  and  the  master  brings  the  sea- 
gates  across.  Again  the  creak  of  chain  and  jarring 
of  the  massive  timbers,  and  the  boats,  lifted  by  a 
flood  from  the  higher  level,  rise  to  the  limit  and  set 
out  anew  on  their  passages. 

High  water,  and  the  Mersey  at  Runcorn  a  broa'd 
river  once  more !  Barges  have  come  and  gone,  the 
Old  Lock  is  quiet  again,  and  the  master  with  a 
cheery  "Good  neet,  Mister.  Six  o'  clock  i'  t' 
marnin',"  has  clop-clop-clopped  his  way  up  the 
long  sea-wall.  The  showman's  orchestrion  has 
wheezed  out  'A  Lassie  from  Lan-ca-share'  for  the 
last  hundredth  time  and  is  tarpaulined  and  at  rest. 
The  wind  has  come  keen  from  the  eastward,  with 
a  rare  atmosphere  and  clear  northern  light  that 
comes  with  frost.  A  late  express  thunders  across 
the  bridge,  shedding  a  trail  of  golden  sparks  to  the 
water.  One  by  one  the  house  lights  go  out,  but 
over  the  water  the  glare  of  quenchless  furnaces  in 
a  Temple  of  Industry  stands  steady,  reflected  in 
the  overhanging  cloud-wraith. 


XXXV 
SUFFRAGE  AND  BETEL-NUT 

R.  NARAYAN  S.  BHOSLE  writes  us  a  let- 
ter  from  which  we  take  the  following  ex- 
tracts : 

I  tell  you  truly,  Mr.  Editor,  if  Suffragists  allowed  in 
House  of  Parliament  they  make  the  world  topside  down. 
First  of  all  they  make  Mrs.  Pankhurst  Viceroy  of  India 
and  Mrs.  Pethick  Governor  of  Bombay.  I  know  you 
are  laughing  Mr.  Editor  because  I  say  this,  but  all 
womans  is  like  that  and  do  more  foolish  things.  Your 
St.  Paul  is  very  clever  fellow.  He  knows  all  the  foolisfi 
things  of  the  womans.  He  says  very  strongly  womans 
must  shut  the  mouth.  No  talking  about  business  or 
anything.  Everything  must  ask  to  the  husbands  and 
he  will  tell  you.  Shame,  shame  for  womans  to  talk. 
But  what  the  womans  care  for  St.  Paul.  He  is  poor 
fellow  and  not  passing  M.A.  and  B.A.  like  them  and 
their  husbands  perhaps  only  passing  fourth  of  fifth 
standard.  So  they  become  proud  and  fight  to  go  in 
the  House  of  Parliament.  Europe  people  say  we  Indian 
people  treating  our  womans  like  servant  and  animals. 
This  is  not  true.  We  teach  woman  to  do  home  work 
proply.  Clean  the  house,  make  food,  wash  dress,  make 
dress  and  make  jolly  all  the  peoples  of  the  house.  .  .  . 
Therefore  My  dear  Mr.  Editor  I  fold  hands  and  kiss  your 
feets  and  ask  you  to  tell  all  the  men  to  stop  this  mischief 
of  the  suffragists.  If  man  will  not  stop  it  God  will  stop 
it.  I  like  you  very  much  to  put  this  letter  in  your  Times 
of  India  because  in  Bombay  also  some  foolish  men 

267 


268  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

allowing  womans  to  do  wrong  things  by  which  they 
become  afterwards  slowly,  slowly,  suffragists.  Then 
finished  with  Bombay. 

No!  It  isn't!  It  is  quite  genuine  and  appeared 
in  the  Times  of  India  Weekly  of  the  3ist  July 
1912.  I  have  not  the  honour  of  Mr.  Bhosle's  ac- 
quaintanceship, but  I  know  several  Indian  gentle- 
men who  could  quite  well  have  so  expressed  them- 
selves. There  is  Mr.  Jhimmji,  who  sometimes 
does  business  at  the  docks.  He  is  a  labour  con- 
tractor and  loads  ships  occasionally — bulk  loading, 
I  mean,  where  the  labour  is  merely  that  of  filling 
baskets  or  tubs  on  the  shore  and  tipping  them  into 
the  ships'  holds.  Mr.  Jhimmji  is  not  sufficiently 
a  stevedore  to  be  allowed  to  load  and  stow  cargo. 
He  is  elderly,  as  age  goes  in  India — perhaps  forty 
or  forty-five.  I  hear  that  he  is  a  grandfather. 
He  comes  by  the  dockside  at  about  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing, stepping  slowly  and  importantly  in  his  big  em- 
broidered shoes.  Often  I  have  a  word  or  two  with 
him,  for  he  is  a  pleasantly  benevolent  old  gentle- 
man, well  educated,  and  has  opinions  on  the  topics 
of  the  'day.  Only  the  other  day  he  expressed  him- 
self on  the  subject  of  Abkari  licenses,  and,  had 
my  eye  not  been  taken  by  his  quaint  headgear,  flow- 
ing robes,  legs  bare  to  the  knees,  feet  shod  in1 
curiously  embroidered  shoes,  I  might  easily  have 
fancied  myself  a-listening  to  a  temperance  debate 
at  home.  Mr.  Jhimmji  speaks  much  better  Eng- 
lish than  Mr.  Bhosle  writes.  I  have  nevjer  yet 


SUFFRAGE  AND  BETEL-NUT       269 

had  the  temerity  to  ask  Mr.  Jhimmji's  opinion  on 
the  Suffrage  question.  I  had  the  idea  that  that 
was  touching  too  closely  on  caste  matters.  Mr. 
Jhimmji  is,  I  think,  a  Vaisya,  and  anything  that 
raises  a  corner  of  the  purdah  is  very  difficult  with 
them.  Still,  from  my  modest  acquaintance  with 
him,  I  feel  confident  that  he  would  express  him- 
self on  pretty  much  the  same  lines  as  earnest  Mr. 
Bhosle. 

Mr.  Jhimmji  is  wealthy  and  is  said  to  be  very 
charitable.  Conjecture  as  to  the  amount  of  his 
donations  varies  among  those  who  know  him,  but 
all  seem  agreed  that  he  gives  away  a  considerable 
sum  in  philanthropic  effort. 

Yesterday,  I  was  passing  along  the  quayside  on 
my  business.  I  saw  a  steamer  of  Runciman's  being 
loaded  with  manganese  ore.  Bullock  carts  brought 
the  loads  down  in  small  quantities,  and  the  very 
heavy  ore  was  backed  off  on  to  a  heap  on  the  quay. 
From  there,  it  was  carried  by  hand  in  small  iron 
scoops  and  loaded  into  the  great  tubs  that  hy- 
draulic cranes  hoisted  to  the  ship — and  so  the  ore 
was  tipped  into  the  vessel's  holds.  The  carriers 
were  all  women  and  girls,  and  their  work  was 
none  of  the  lightest.  Each  loaded  scoop  would 
weigh  about  forty  pounds,  and  had  to  be  carried  a 
considerable  distance.  They  carried  them  on  their 
heads,  one  hand  steadying  the  scoop  and  the  other 
held  straight  out  in  balance.  Most  were  young 
girls — mere  children — and  they  toiled  and  sweated 


270  *  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

under  a  broiling  sun  in  a  rusty  choking  clou'd  of 
ore  dust.  Some  few  were  adults.  At  one  great 
heap  a  woman  filled  scoops,  scraping  the  red 
lumps  and  dry  dust  with  a  hook-spade.  Slung  in 
a  scrap  of  dingy  clothing  at  her  back  was  a  tiny 
infant,  a  month  old  perhaps.  Now  and  again, 
at  the  violent  movement,  the  child  would  wail 
pitifully.  The  woman  paid  but  scant  attention  to 
it.  Perhaps  there  was  a  momentary  pause  in  the 
scraping,  to  hitch  the  little  scrap  of  humanity  to 
an  easier  posture,  but  the  work  went  on — dig, 
dig,  digging.  What  industry!  Ah, — but  there 
was  a  spur  to  industry,  and  he  sat  on  the  rim  of 
an  ore  tub,  and  all  the  time  he  said  things !  If  the 
little  carrier  girls  paused  but  a  minute  to  scratch 
themselves — to  adjust  their  ore-grimed  rags — to 
see  how  their  naked  feet  had  fared  on  the  rough 
stones — there  was  an  outburst  from  the  task- 
master on  the  rim  of  the  ore  tub.  It  is  well  not 
to  understand  Hindustani  too  well  sometimes! 

At  each  heap  there  was  a  taskmaster.  They 
were  the  only  men  'employed'  in  the  gangs,  and 
I  noticed  that  all  of  them  were  Mahommedans. 
Beyond  shouting  abuse  and  indecencies  at  the 
women  they  took  no  part  in  the  loading.  Only 
they  sat,  each  on  the  rim  of  an  ore  tub,  chewing 
betel-nut  and  squirting  the  bright  red  saliva  wher- 
ever their  head  happened  to  be  turned  at  the  mo- 
ment of  need;  quite  a  number  of  the  toiling  car- 
riers showed  stains. 


SUFFRAGE  AND  BETEL-NUT      271 

On  the  way  back  I  met  my  mukkudam.  I  asked 
him  how  they  paid  the  women.  He  said  they  were 
of  a  low  caste — Mahars — and  would  be  getting 
six  annas  (sixpence)  for  a  day  of  ten  hours. 

I  asked  who  was  loading  the  Runciman  boat. 
He  said  it  was  Jhimmji. 


XXXVI 
THE  TURN  OF,  THE  TIDE 

TN  Calcutta  towards  the  end  of  September  the 
•*•  weather  takes  an  unsettled  turn,  and  its  va- 
garies are  particularly  trying  after  a  lengthy  and 
severe  monsoon.  The  south-west  monsoon  is  of- 
ficially over,  but  yet  recurs  in  frequent  squalls ;  the 
cold  weather  has  not  yet  arrived,  though  the 
morning  mists  .enshroud  the  maidan  and  river,  and 
the  temperature  occasionally  falls  as  low  as  70. 
The  sky,  fair  and  cloudy  by  turns,  presents  an 
ever-changing  variety  of  effects,  and  at  this  season, 
above  all  others,  the  sunsets  on  the  river  attain  to 
grandeur.  Rain  still  falls  in  spasmodic  bursts,  and 
the  daily  appearance  of  mysterious  cones  and 
drums  on  the  flagstaffs  of  the  Harbour  Office  in- 
dicates the  presence  of  cyclonic  areas  in  the  Bay. 
On  the  river  the  slackness  and  comparative  stag- 
nation of  the  rainy  season  has  given  place  to  stren- 
uous days, — days  when  berthing  masters  work 
double  tides,  upstream  and  down  river, — when 
no  one  may  prolong  his  siesta,  and  only  foolish 
folk  give  bedding  to  an  idle  ox.  Vessels  discharg- 
ing at  the  jetties  work  far  into  the  night,  taking 
advantage  of  the  weather  as  they  may,  for  who 

272 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE         273 

knows  when  a  deluge  may  befall?  Stevedores, 
breathless  and  impatient,  are  seeking  in  odd 
corners  for  the  coolie  labourers  they  discarded 
when  'the  rains'  set  in,  and  they  think  themselves 
ill-used  when  they  find  them  elsewhere  employed. 
Steamers  are  daily  arriving  from  outports,  and  a 
forest  of  masts  and  spars,  funnels  and  shrouds,  is 
springing  up  at  the  Esplanade  moorings,  where 
the  huge  cargo-carriers  lie,  in  readiness  for  a 
bumper  jute  crop.  Here  the  river  presents  a  stir- 
ring scene,  a  riot  of  colour  and  life  and  movement. 
Along  the  banks  gaily  dressed  crowds  of  Bengalis 
assemble  to  bathe  in  the  sacred  river.  It  is  the 
festival  of  Puja,  and  the  bathing  ghats  are 
thronged  at  all  hours  by  seekers  after  sanctity. 
With  a  thoroughness  that  marks  sincerity,  they  set 
about  their  ablutions  and  simple  rites.  Milk,  rice, 
banyan  leaves,  and  scented  flowers  are  cast  on  the 
waters;  prayers  are  said,  and  the  suppliants  seem 
utterly  unmindful  of  a  shadow  on  their  temple 
steps,  a  shadow  cast  by  the  stern  of  an  East  Coast 
leviathan,  a  monument  of  ugliness.  It  matters 
not  that  strange  keels  ride  in  the  river,  that  out- 
pourings from  Feringhi  mills  and  factories  find 
their  way  to  swell  the  tide;  nothing  can  defile  its 
purity  nor  alter  its  sanctity,  for  to  them  Hugli  is 
Mother  Gunga,  river  of  ages,  healer  of  pain  and 
sickness,  soother  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  cleanser 
of  sin  and  defilement,  sure  highway  to  Nirvaneh, 
quiescence  of  all.  The  flood  comes  up  from  the 


274  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

sea  witH  a  majesty  of  movement,  bearing  on  its 
broad  bosom  the  craft  of  many  countries  and  many 
races,  meting  an  equal  surge  to  shapely  liners  and 
the  shallow  'dug-out'  canoes  of  river  folk.  Har- 
bour launches  dart  about  on  their  errands,  pant- 
ing laboriously  against  the  stream,  or  steaming 
with  the  tide  at  dangerously  high  speeds.  They 
lie  low  in  the  water,  and  the  waves  they  cause  seem 
absurdly  out  of  proportion  to  their  bulk  and  beam; 
steaming  against  the  tide,  they  seem  to  be  shoving 
all  Hugli  before  them  to  make  a  passage.  Pictur- 
esque, ungainly  craft  work  upstream  with  much 
shouting  and  cracking  of  oars.  The  standing 
rowers  pull  a  short  dipping  stroke,  and  chant  a 
chorus  to  the  song  of  their  steersmen,  perched  high 
above  the  steering  oar.  Inland  steamers  from  up- 
country — high,  warehouse-like  craft — are  canting 
in  mid-stream,  or  steering,  three  abreast,  towards 
the  navigable  passage  of  the  Howrah  Bridge. 
Far  down  the  river,  at  Garden  Reach  and  beyond, 
the  black  smoke  pouring  from  factory  chimneys 
tells  of  work  and  overwork,  for  the  jute  mills  must 
now  toil  night  and  day  to  stand  a  chance  against 
the  industry  of  Dundee.  A  black  indigo-tinted 
squall  is  making  up  in  the  sou'west,  and  the  lower 
reaches  are  shrouded  in  the  blue  mist  that  marks 
the  rain  advancing.  The  steersmen  in  the  river 
boats  lay  their  umbrellas  handy,  and  the  weather- 
wise  put  out  an  additional  rope  to  steady  their 
craft.  The  flags  of  the  shipping  lie  lung  against 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE         275 

the  masts,  then  stir  uneasily,  as  if  unable  to  tell 
which  airt  to  flaunt.  The  forerunner  of  the  squall 
takes  them,  and  they  slat  out  viciously,  and  lay  a 
trembling  edge  to  the  wind  and  rain.  Down 
comes  the  deluge,  and  amid  the  drumming  of  the 
rain  on  the  awnings  and  the  noise  of  water  rush- 
ing through  the  scuppers  can  be  heard  the  cries 
and  lamentations  of  boatmen  who  have  been  taken 
unawares  with  their  goods  uncovered.  There  is  a 
scurry  and  a  rush  to  get  the  hatches  on,  and  an  im- 
patient wrestle  with  a  wind-possessed  tarpaulin, 
and  then  the  drenched  cargo-wallahs  betake  them- 
selves to  cover. 

Out  in  mid-stream  sailing  boats  are  caught  by 
the  squall.  Some  have  only  a  few  fluttering  rags 
to  tell  where  their  canvas  stood;  others,  better 
provided,  are  making  most  of  the  following  wind, 
and,  with  sheets  eased  away  and  a  full  sail,  are 
scudding  up-river,  to  reach  Samnugger  before 
nightfall. 

Quickly  as  it  comes  up,  the  squall  passes  away 
across  the  city.  Sails  are  again  hoisted,  and  the 
boatmen  resume  work.  Fishermen  put  off  from 
the  banks  in  their  frail  canoes,  and  start  sweeping 
the  river  with  their  nets,  sure  of  a  rich  haul  after 
the  rain.  The  flood  tide  bears  strongly  upstream, 
surging  under  the  wharves  and  landings  and  wash- 
ing over  the  steps  of  the  temples — a  brown  muddy 
flood,  bearing  many  derelict  objects  on  its  rippling 
surface.  There  are  brown  earthenware  chatties, 


*  BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

not  yet  stranded  or  borne  to  sea,  broken  branches 
and  bleached  tree  roots,  logs  of  timber  and  rough- 
hewn  spars,  carcases  of  oxen,  and  sometimes,  a 
huddled  mass  that  once  may  have  been  a  man. 

Some  boatmen  recover  a  baulk  of  timber  and 
chatter  joyfully  over  their  find,  but  scarce  have 
they  got  their  prize  on  board  before  the  police 
boat  is  alongside,  and  a  burly  Havildar  demands, 
with  an  excess  of  picturesque  abuse,  an  account  of 
the  salvage.  The  headman  of  the  cargo  boat  en- 
deavours to  satisfy  the  enquiring  official,  and  be- 
littles his  find  in  no  halting  terms. 

"Wood  of  little  goodness,  oh,  Havildar-jee!  A 
cursed  bit  of  jungle  wood  that  I  thought  teak  when 
I  saw  it  with  my  eyes.  Of  no  value,  no  value  at 
all,  as  thou  seest.  Accursed  am  I  that  I  should 
waste  my  time  at  Maknens  (MacKinnon's)  ghat!, 
To  the  water  with  it  again,  M'med  Sheik  Ismail, 
for  thou  knowest  whom  the  mill-sahibs  will  beat  if 
we  be  late!"  The  Havildar  raised  a  restraining 
hand,  and  the  log  remains.  "Oh,  son  of  genera- 
tion of  Liars,  thinks't  thou  I  know  not  good  teak, 
but  days  in  the  water?  Show  me  thy  license,  pig, 
the  number  of  thy  boat,  for  this  is  an  affair  for  the 
'Specter-Sahib'  I" 

"That  I,  a  boatman  of  years " 

The  tide  bears  the  boats  upstream  and  out  of 
earshot,  but  evidently  the  matter  is  amicably  ar- 
ranged. Shortly  the  police  boat  casts  off,  and  the 
log  still  rests  across  the  gunwale  of  the  cargo- 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE        277 

wallah.     It  will  be  a  matter  of  eight  annas  or 
maybe  a  rupee  1 

The  day  wears  on,  and  already  the  sun's  rays 
seek  under  roof-tops  and  chase  the  grateful  shade 
from  under  awnings.  The  Mussulmans  in  the 
boats  range  themselves  for  prayer,  and  their  cry, 
La  Allah  il  a  'Allah,  mingles  curiously  with  creak 
of  chain  and  rattle  of  panting  winches.  Slowly  the 
sun  descends,  and  a  deep  bank  of  western  cloud 
sends  out  emissaries  to  attend  the  close  of  day. 
The  towers  and  minarets,  domes  and  spires  of  the 
city,  anU  the  masts  and  spars  of  shipping  are  out- 
lined with  a  golden  thread;  the  distant  trees  as- 
sume a  deeper  hue.  The  broad  expanse  of  the 
river  reflects  the  glow  and  glory  of  the  sky  o'er- 
head,  changing  from  a  molten  bronze  to  the  shim- 
mer of  fiery  copper  as  the  sun  nears  the  horizon. 
Clouds,  unseen  before,  are  creeping  up  with  the 
[eastern  twilight,  breaking  up  and  reforming  under 
the  yet  'dispelling  rays  of  the  light-giver.  In  the 
west  the  cloud  banks  assume  a  grandeur  of  saffron 
and  gold,  orange  and  crimson,  and  amid  such  radi- 
ance the  sun  goes  'down.  From  an  Indian  Marine 
ship  anchored  in  the  river  the  beautiful  melody  of 
'sunset'  bugle-call  announces  the  close  of  'day. 
Flags  flutter  from  their  proud  places  aloft;  the 
noise  and  clamour  of  ships  at  work,  the  rattle  of 
falls,  the  throbbing  of  winches,  cries  of  the 
workers  and  raucous  exhortations  of  men-drivers 
—all  cease,  for  a  time  at  least. 


278  '.  BROKEN  STOWAGE '[ 

From  the  boats  thin  blue  smoke  an'd  the  oHour 
of  wood  fires  mark  the  evening  meal  in  prepara- 
tion, and  the  boatmen,  released  from  their  day's 
work,  gather  round  and  spend  the  cool  twilight 
hour  in  talk  and  banter.  One,  under  the  stern- 
ports,  rattles  a  'turn-turn,'  and  sings,  with  an  af- 
fected nasal  intonation,  an  endless  song  of  the 
glories  of  'Shah-Jee-han.'  He  details  the  splen- 
'dour  of  the  raiment,  the  magnificence  of  the  pal- 
aces of  Shah-Jee-han,  and  commences  to  enumer- 
ate the  virtues  of  the  wives  of  the  renowned 
Prince,  when  an  exasperated  steward  interrupts  his 
chronicle  with  a  vituperative  'Chuperao  sooar!' 
The  glow  in  the  west  changes  from  saffron  to  a 
'dull  smoky  red,  and  then  to  grey.  Familiar  stars 
peep  out,  ranged  in  unchangeable  constellations. 
The  night  clouds  roll  up  from  the  south-west,  and 
lightning,  vivid  but  noiseless,  flashes  intermittently 
around  the  horizon.  Lights  spring  up  along  the 
river  on  ship  and  shore,  cocoanut  oil  flares  on  the 
boats,  and  great  ghostly  arcs  on  the  railway  ghats 
and  Howrah  Bridge,  their  reflections  broken  by 
shadowy  sail  or  black  hull  of  passing  craft.  An 
inland  steamer  passes  'down  the  river  with  her 
searchlight  throwing  a  long  brilliant  beam  ahead, 
seeking  for  shoal  or  obstruction.  At  the  bathing 
ghat,  clashing  of  cymbals,  rumble  of  a  rhythmic 
turn-turn,  and  blaze  of  many  lights  and  coloured 
fires  mark  the  ceremonial  arrival  of  some  elabo- 
rate idol,  about  to  be  immersed  in  the  river. 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE        279 

Jewels,  trinkets,  and  gaudy  fabrics  are  removed, 
and  the  figure  cast  to  the  waters.  The  blaze  of 
light  dies  out,  and  only  tapers,  set  afloat,  glimmer 
and  splutter  in  the  'darkness.  At  times  their  feeble 
rays  fall  on  silent  white-robed  figures  knee-deep 
in  the  water;  devout  ones,  engaged  in  prayer  or 
meditation;  and  the  smell  of  scented  flowers,  their 
offerings,  cast  on  the  water,  rises  in  the  still  air. 

The  tide  has  slackened,  and  they  who  have  busi- 
ness upstream  are  making  most  of  their  oppor- 
tunity. Creeping  along  close  inshore,  where  the 
flood  still  lingers,  they  mark  their  progress  with 
shouts  of  encouragement,  'Sabass,  maribab!  Sa- 
bassf' 

Then  the  flood  ceases,  and  there  is  a  stillness 
over  the  river,  its  broad  bosom  unagitated  by 
wind  or  tide.  The  voices  of  the  night  take 
strength  from  the  darkness;  the  chirrup  of  crickets 
and  cries  of  night  birds  can  plainly  be  heard.  A 
fisherman  casts  his  net  with  a  soothing  plash,  and 
his  oar  creaks  as  he  twists  his  canoe  into  position 
for  the  haul.  The  low  rumble  of  distant  traffic 
on  Howrah  Bridge  only  accentuates  the  silence  of 
the  hour  and  stillness  of  the  tide.  The  air  grows 
chill,  an'd  a  'damp  mist  moves  across  from  the 
marshy  banks  at  Shalimar.  Now  a  low  swelling 
murmur  from  the  devotees  at  the  gh&t  marks  a 
movement  of  importance — Mother  Gunga,  mys- 
terious and  majestic,  has  turned  their  offerings  to 
the  sea. 


XXXVII 
HIS  MAJESTY'S  CUSTOMS 

EPRESENTATIVE  of  law  and  the  revenue, 
the  Customs  Officers  are  the  first  to  board  an 
inward-bound  vessel.  Theirs  is  the  privilege  of 
greeting  the  sailormen  just  in  from  the  sea,  and 
although  the  object  of  their  visit  may  be  opposed 
to  certain  proprietary  interests,  and  thus  distaste- 
ful to  some  members  of  the  crew,  their  salutations 
are  none  the  less  hearty  on  that  account.  As  they 
are  conversant  with  the  doings  of  the  world  at 
large,  and  more  particularly  with  those  of  their 
own  port,  their  coming  is  looked  forward  to  by 
the  deep-water  men,  ignorant  for  months,  maybe, 
of  what  has  happened  beyond  the  rim  of  their 
lonely  horizon;  and  if  the  mode  of  greeting  takes 
the  form  of  a  proffered  newspaper,  days  old  and 
thumbed  as  it  might  be,  their  reception  is  almost 
royal.  They  are  diplomats  to  a  man,  these  keen- 
eyed,  weather-beaten  servants  of  the  Crown;  they 
never  go  to  work  off-hand.  That  would  be  an 
abrupt  and  mechanical  way  of  carrying  out  their 
instructions.  Matters  go  on  much  better  when 
amicable  relations  are  established,  so  our  Customs 
Officer,  with  a  preliminary  flourish  of  his  knuckles 

280 


HIS  MAJESTY'S  CUSTOMS         281 

on  the  hooke'd-back  'door,  projects  a  cheery  face 
into  the  frame  of  one's  doorway,  an'd  says  genially, 
"Well?"  Then,  to  a  comfortable  seat  and  a  talk 
together.  There  is  the  voyage  to  be  discussed,  the 
weather,  shipping  casualties,  sailors'  wages;  and 
whilst  talking  of  the  appointments  of  a  new  ship 
or  of  a  state  of  'Preventive'  inefficiency  at  other 
ports,  he  is,  at  the  same  time,  taking  stock  of  cabin 
furniture  and  marking  down  some  discrepancies 
in  measurement  that  may  be  worth  looking  into. 
It  is  all  done  in  fine  spirit.  It  is  a  game  he  plays 
for  a  livelihood,  "You  hide  and  I  seek!"  Meeting 
daily  with  men  arrived  from  all  parts  of  the  globe, 
he  has  a  fund  of  interest  and  incident  to  draw 
upon,  and,  as  the  pursuit  of  his  calling  makes  him 
a  keen  judge  of  men  and  character,  he  is  a  good 
talker,  well  worth  listening  to.  A  favourite  theme 
is,  of  course,  some  smart  work  recently  done  in 
seizure  of  contraband,  and  the  skilful  way  in  which 
he  discounts  the  element  of  chance,  and  presents 
the  particular  incident  as  a  standard  of  everyday 
work,  is  remarkable.  With  the  odds  so  heavily 
against  him,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  should 
have  disappointing  experiences,  and  it  is  to  his 
credit  that  he  relates  the  failures  as  often  as  the 
successes,  and  laughs  as  heartily  as  anyone  at  the 
way  he  has  been  'done.' 

At  B there  was  a  famous  Customs  'crew.' 

They  were  known  as  the  'breakdown  gang,'  for 
their  skill  in  the  mysteries  of  ship  construction. 


282  ^BROKEN  STOWAGE'; 

[The  magnitude  of  their  'seizures'  was  talltecl  about 
on  the  seven  seas,  and  they  were  popularly  sup- 
posed to  have  to  pay  income-tax  on  their  share  of 
the  fines  for  smuggling.  There  were  four  whilom 
ship-carpenters  in  the  gang,  and  they  knew  every- 
thing about  a  ship;  no  task  in  exposing  the  'in- 
nards' of  a  vessel  was  considered  too  great  for 
them.  They  could  whip  down  the  lining  boards 
of  a  cabin,  satisfy  themselves  that  the  recess  con- 
tained nothing  dutiable,  and  rattle  them  up  into 
place  again — the  while  their  chief  (the  P.O.,  they 
call  him)  was  having  a  fairly  long  smoke  in  the 
steward's  cabin.  Even  the  ship's  sacred  compasses 
were  not  left  free  of  their  attentions,  and  they 
thought  nothing  of  probing  round  the  magnet 
chambers  with  an  iron  lantern  and  a  steel  poking- 
rod. 

Once  a  Nova  Scotia  barque  came  in  light  from 
a  Continental  port.  The  'breakdown  gang'  were 
serving  the  tide,  and  they  boarded  her  with  high 
hopes  of  a  seizure.  The  mate  of  the  barque  was 
a  'hard  case,'  and  if  looks  went  for  anything  he 
should  have  had  at  least  half  a  hundredweight 
of  contraband  stowed  somewhere  away.  She  was 
a  difficult  job,  being  an  ancient  craft,  with  the 
repairs  and  alterations  of  half  a  century  to  puzzle 
the  rummagers,  but  the  credit  of  the  'breakdown 
gang'  had  to  be  upheld,  and  they  stuck  manfully 
to  their  task.  They  went  over  her  thoroughly; 
they  loosed  the  sails  and  shouted,  "Stand  away, 


HIS  MAJESTY'S  CUSTOMS         283 

under!"  but  nothing  fell  from  the  folds;  they 
shifted  ballast  and  dabbled  in  the  water-tanks,  but 
nothing  came  to  light;  and,  to  crown  all,  the  evil- 
looking  mate  borrowed  a  few  cigars  and  some  to- 
bacco from  the  P.O.,  "jest  t'  keep  me  goin'  till  I 
get  ashore,"  he  said.  Next  morning,  when  going 
their  rounds,  they  met  an  ill-used  man.  He  had  a 
bruised  lip,  was  out  of  breath,  and  vowing  sum- 
mary vengeance.  Ill-used  seamen  are  plentiful 
enough  about  the  docks,  and  little  attention  would 
have  been  paid  to  him  but  that  he  was  telling  a 
'docker  something  about  a  Nova  Scotia  mate,  and 
how  hard  they  were  on  fo'c'sle  hands.  'When 
shipmates  fall  out  the  Customs  come  by  their  due' ; 
and  a  little  sympathy  elicited  the  facts  that  he  was 
one  of  the  crew  of  the  barque,  that  he  had  made 
the  voyage,  was  hard  worked,  and  treated  cruel, 
and  now,  after  a  drop  o'  drink,  had  had  words 
with  the  mate,  been  'clouted,'  and  bundled  ashore. 
He  muttered  many  threats  against  his  aggressor, 
he  would  be  even  with  him  yet — the  dog!  The 
'Customs'  were  ready  listeners,  and  the  P.O. 
hinted  at  his  own  opinion  of  the  mate's  character. 
At  this  the  ill-used  man  became  suspicious,  and 
when  it  was  suggested  that  he  might  know  some- 
thing of  the  mate's  'plank'  (hiding-place)  became 
indignant. 

"No!  No!  Bad's  bad,  but  Ah  ain't  goin'  t' 
give  away  no  shipmate  t'  you  bloomin'  sharks.  If 
Ah  meets  'im  ashore  arter  dark,  A'll  give  'im  one, 


284  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

that's  wot  Vll  get,  one  acrost  th'  bloomin'  jaw, 
but  Ah  ain't  a'goin'  t'  give  'im  away,  no  bloomin' 
'fear.  Me?  Not  much!" 

This  was  a  'scent,'  and  when  it  was  represented 
to  the  ill-used  man  that  the  contraband  being 
found  (uand  found  it  will  be,  if  we've  got  t'  stand 
the  barque  on  'er  'ead  an'  shake  'er")  he  would 
be  fixed  on  as  accessory,  he  reluctantly  laid  the  in- 
formation : 

"Mind  ye,  Ah  knows  nothin'  fer  certain;  but 
w'en  we  was  in  th'  river,  'im  an'  th'  bloomin'  nig- 
ger stooard  was  a-muckin'  about  th'  chain  locker, 
an'  if  there  ain't  'baccy  in  that  there  chain  locker, 
call  me  a  bloomin'  Dutchman,  that's  awl!" 

The  chain  locker  is  that  compartment  where  the 
ship's  anchor  cables  are  kept,  and  to  clear  it  for 
inspection  would  be  no  small  task,  but  here  was 
information,  the  bruised  lip  stamping  it  as  genuine, 
so  the  'breakdown  gang'  again  boarded  the  barque 
and  set  to  work. 

They  were  met  at  the  gangway  by  the  mate. 
"Hullo!  Ain't  you  satisfied  yet?  Guess  you  kant 
hev  much  t'  do,  when  you  come  hear  a-roustin'  th' 
rats  about!" 

In  spite  of  his  bold  front,  he  seemed  ill  at  ease, 
and  watched  their  preparations  for  heaving  out 
the  chain  with  evident  perturbation. 

"Wall!  Look  you  hear,"  he  said.  "If  you 
start  that  chain,  you'll  stow  it  again,  every  ruddy 


HIS  MAJESTY'S  CUSTOMS         285 

link,  an'  it  ain't  no  fool  job  gettin'  th'  range  right 
in  a  small  locker  like  that!" 

"Oh!  That's  all  right,  mister,"  answere'd  the 
P.O.  "Never  you  fear,  we'll  put  the  chain  back 
as  we  get  it  If  we  find  no  contraband  about!" 

Jackets  came  off,  and  they  started  on  the  star- 
board anchor,  heaving  up,  and  letting  the  chain 
run  into  the  dock.  It  was  hard  work;  the  windlass 
was  old-fashioned  and  rusty,  but  the  rummagers 
hove  with  a  will,  and  the  pawls  went  clank,  clank, 
clank,  as  if  there  was  a  twelve-months'  pay  to  lift 
at  the  windlass  bars.  Two  hundred  and  forty 
fathoms  of  cable  there  were,  but  hope  was  at  the 
'bitter'  end,  and  by  midday  both  chains  were  chock 
up,  and  they  were  able  to  get  down  to  the  floor 
of  the  locker.  For  over  an  hour  they  probed 
around,  tramping,  ankle-deep,  in  the  mud  and 
refuse  of  a  hundred  anchorages.  Odd  things  they 
found — queer  shells  from  tropical  seas,  bits  of 
coral,  decayed  seaweed,  scraps  of  chain  and  wire 
— all  the  refuse  that  had  come  up  in  the  wake  of 
the  chain  from  countless  ocean  bottoms — but  there 
was  no  contraband,  nothing  dutiable. 

For  long  they  searched,  reluctant  to  give  it  up, 
and  that  they  only  did  when  the  mate  shouted 
down,  wanting  to  know  what  they  had  found. 
"Wall!  Look  a  hear,"  he  said.  "I  guess  you'd 
better  take  a  rest,  an'  let  me  get  my  hands  on  t' 
clear  that  muck  out  o'  th'  locker — what  I've  been 


286  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

wantin'  t'  Ho  this  three  year  or  more,  only  never 
had  hands  t'  spare  t'  roust  th'  cable  up !"  Sadly 
they  clambered  up  the  ladders,  to  find  the  ill-used 
man  and  another  waiting  in  the  fo'c'sle  with 
buckets  and  brooms  and  a  heaving  line,  all  .ready 
for  their  job  of  clearing  out  the  locker. 

Grinning,  the  ill-used  man  said  that  he'd  found 
that  the  mate  wasn't  a  half-bad  sort  after  all,  that 
he  had  looked  over  his  being  drunk  and  fighting  in 
the  'Lord  Nelson'  last  night,  and  had  promised 
him  the  bosun's  job  on  the  next  voyage ! 


XXXVIII 
THE  CATALOGUE 

A  T  the  Stores,  an  energetic  shop-manager 
•*•  pressed  a  catalogue  of  their  wares  upon  me. 
The  tome  was  bulky  and  I  demurred,  but  it  was  of 
no  use. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  with  a  confident  smile,  "you  will 
find  it  very  useful,  sir,  during  your  stay  in  India." 

Now,  how  did  he  know  I  was  a  new-comer? 
Perhaps  there  was  something  in  my  dress  or  man- 
ner, my  topee  would  be  too  aggressively  new,  or 
my  crash  jacket  would  show  a  tailor's  fold  as  dis- 
tinct from  a  dhobe's!  He  was  evidently  an  ob- 
servant person,  but  not  sufficiently  observant  to 
deduce  that  I  was  leaving  Bombay  on  the  morrow 
— which  I  was.  I  did  not  require  a  Stores  cata- 
logue, but  he  insisted,  so  I  brought  it  with  me. 

It  was  a  very  bulky  volume,  some  1040  pages, 
and  all  the  items  were  fully  illustrated.  The 
Stores  are  properly  a  chemist's  and  druggist's  es- 
tablishment, but  the  catalogue,  beginning  at  A— 
'Abaca,  roots,  Manilla — ran  through  the  entire 
classification  of  requirements,  ancient  and  modern. 
C — Cachous,  liquorice;  D — Diaries,  Stores  spe- 

287 


288  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

cial;  E — Entree  "dishes,  plated,  best — and  so  on  to 
Z — Zymometers,  adjustable,  nickel-steel. 

All  this  I  read  on  my  way  to  visit  a  man  at 
Colaba.  I  decided  that  such  a  volume  was  not 
conducive  to  a  spirit  of  contentment  and  economy, 
that  its  further  perusal  would  tend  to  show  me 
how  ill-supplied  I  was  with  even  the  necessaries 
of  a  polite  existence.  Already  I  was  grieved  that 
I  did  not  possess  a  D — Dressing-case,  fitted,  gold- 
mounted,  warranted — Rs.  780,  As.  12. 

I  resolved  to  discard  the  tempting  book,  and,  to 
that  end,  stowed  it  under  the  seaf  of  the  hackney 
gharry  that  was  bearing  me  on.  I  took  pains  that 
the  driver  should  not  see  me  do  this.  I  waited 
until  he  was  deep  in  an  argument  with  the  driver 
of  an  overtaking  tramcar.  At  Greaves'  bungalow 
I  paid  the  gharry  off.  On  my  way  upstairs  I  dis- 
tinctly saw  my  late  driver  preparing  for  a  rest. 
He  brought  grass  fodder  from  a  bag  under  the 
gharry  and  placed  it  on  the  ground  where  his 
horse,  a  broken-winded  arab,  could  get  at  it.  Then 
he  lay  back  on  the  floor  of  the  carriage,  set  his 
feet  high  up  on  the  wheel  guards,  unloosed  his 
jacket,  and  lay  still. 

But  for  my  having  seen  this  I  would  still  have 
faith  in  the  Bombay  gharriwallah.  In  spite  of 
frequent  differences  on  money  matters,  I  had,  till 
this,  a  tolerant  regard  for  the  dusky  jehu  who 
bows  me  so  magnificently  to  my  seat — and  lets  me 


THE  CATALOGUE  289 

step  oft  in  tHe  mu'd,  he  sighing  only  at  the  smallness 
of  his  backsheesh. 

As  I  say,  I  saw  him  at  his  rest.  Judge,  then,  of 
my  surprise  when,  half  an  hour  later,  Greaves' 
bearer  interrupted  our  conversation  with  the  in- 
formation that  a  gharriwallah  had  called  back 
with  a  book  which  the  Sahib  had  left  in  his  gharry. 

"Oh!  that  catalogue,"  I  said.  "I  'don't  want 
it." — Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  this  would  be  a 
bad  precedent. — "Oh,  well!  Take  it,  O  Bargoo, 
and  let  the  man  go !" 

But  no!  Bargoo  returned  with  the  statement 
that  the  gharriwallah — so  great  was  his  honesty — 
would  return  the  book  to  none  but  the  Sahib  him- 
self. 

There  was  nothing  for  it.  The  man  was 
brought  in.  He  looked  hot  and  hurried,  but  I 
noticed  that  his  jacket  was  still  unbuttoned.  At 
sight  of  me  he  smiled — a  proud,  glad  smile.  He 
had  the  wretched  book  tightly  clasped  in  his  hands. 

"Thy  book,  O  Sahib,  that  I,  Sheik  Ebram, 
found  in  our  gharry." — He  twisted  the  brass 
badge  on  his  arm  so  that  I  could  note  his  number. 
— "It  was  a  long  way  off — at  Dhobe  Talao — be- 
fore I  saw  that  the  Sahib  had  left  it.  ...  Here 
have  I  hurried  back,  although  there  was  business 
for  me  at  Bori  Bundar.  ...  I  hurried  back  in 
haste,  lest  the  Sahib  should  be  gone!" 

His  hurried  speech  and  breathing  were  well 


290  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

simulatecl — but  that  unbuttoned  jacket!  Then 
there  was  the  point  that  only  by  lying  down  in  the 
gharry  could  he  have  seen  the  book  as  I  had  placed 
it.  If  I  had  troubled  to  look  over  the  east  ver- 
andah, I  would  surely  have  seen  the  gharry  in  the 
same  spot — the  winded  crock  still  struggling  with 
the  last  straws  of  his  meal.  Besides,  there  is  not 
in  Bombay  a  public  gharry  horse  capable  of  going 
from  Middle  Colaba  to  Dhobe  Talao  and  back  in 
half  an  hour. 

I  knew  that  he  was  lying  and  he  knew  that  I 
knew — but  there  was  the  miserable  book,  undoubt- 
edly my  property — Hutt!  I  gave  him  six  annas, 
and  the  staid  Bargoo  saw  him  off  the  premises,  he 
protesting  loudly  about  the  smallness  of  his  re- 
ward. 

Having  thus  paid  money  for  the  book,  I  decided 
to  keep  it.  Greaves  was  laughing  at  me,  and  I 
swore  that  nothing  should  part  me  from  my  vol- 
ume. During  what  remained  of  my  leave  ashore 
I  kept  firm  hold  of  it.  Even  when  playing  a  last 
hundred  up  at  Greens',  I  had  a  wary  eye  on  the 
spot  wherfi  I  Ha'd  laid  it  by.  As  a  result — I  lost 
bacUy. 


Sailing  clay  is  busy  clay.  !A'  lengthy  boulevard 
in  the  nether  regions  must  be  paved  with  the  good 
intentions  that  are  only  brought  to  mind  when  the 
'blue  peter'  is  run  up.  Everything  and  every  one 


THE  CATALOGUE  291 

is  hurried.  There  is  the  usual  mad  rush  to  com- 
plete our  loading  in  time,  the  doubt  whether  all 
the  cargo  can  be  stowed,  the  fitting  and  finishing 
of  a  good  burthen,  the  clearing  up  and  coiling 
away  of  harbour  gear — sea-trim  must  be  the  word 
when  the  tide  serves. 

With  all  this  there  are  our  own  personal  affairs. 
The  laggard  'dhobe  turns  up  with  the  washing  he 
should  have  'delivered  yesterday.  A  skilful  move 
this,  for  now  there  is  no  time  to  turn  over  and  lay 
bare  the  tears  and  rents  so  cleverly  folded  to  show 
a  laundered  surface  to  the  casual  eye.  Then  Aunt 
Matilda's  set  of  china  has  not  turned  up,  and  there 
is  a  prospect  of  its  having  been  delivered  on  board 
some  other  vessel.  A  great  army  of  expectant 
retainers  hangs  around — most  of  whom  one  does 
not  remember  having  seen  before.  They  salaam 
grandly  whenever  they  happen  to  catch  the  eye, 
and  appeal  mutely  for  backsheesh.  At  length  the 
feverish  rush  is  over  and  the  stevedore's  gangs 
have  gone  ashore.  The  barriers  are  put  up  and 
yellow-turbaned  police  are  there  to  see  that  no  one 
without  a  bill  of  health  is  allowed  to  go  on  board. 
The  port  doctor  comes  to  examine  us  an'd  to  cer- 
tify that  we  are  suitable  for  export. 

We  are  all  ready,  and  the  dock  pilot  is  clearing 
his  throat,  when  a  running  coolie  breaks  through 
the  police  line  and  comes  swiftly  to  the  gangway. 
The  police  wallahs  follow  and  lay  rough  hands  on 
him: — he  is  being  told  a  lot  of  information  about 


292  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

the  character  of  his  women-folk.  It  is  quite  a 
scene  I  The  unmooring  of  the  ship  is  temporarily 
suspended.  I  am  told  that  the  man  has  a  letter 
and  parcel  for  me.  Observed  of  all,  I  open  the 
letter.  It  is  from  the  barkeeper  at  Greens' : 

SIR — On  occasion  of  last  visit  you  left  book  which  I 
sending  by  the  special  coolie. 

The  book!    That  infernal  catalogue  again! 
P-S. — Please  paying  coolie  hire,  annas  four. 


XXXIX 
FLOOD  TIDE  AND  EBB 

half-ebb  to  half-flood  there  is  little  'do- 
ing on  the  broad  of  the  Mersey  river;  only 
the  ferry-boats  pass  from  shore  to  shore,  and  a 
coasting  schooner,  hung  up  on  the  last  tide,  works 
slowly  to  an  anchorage  in  the  Sloyne.  Traffic 
afloat  is  at  a  standstill  until  the  tide  turns  and 
bears  a  burden  of  laden  ships  in  from  the  sea. 
Out  in  midstream  a  few  vessels,  too  late  to  dock 
on  the  flood,  are  anchored,  and  a  great  Cunarder, 
with  her  blue  peter  at  the  fore,  lies  waiting  off 
the  landing-stage  for  her  appointed  sailing  hour. 
To  seaward  the  banks  lie  bare  to  sun  and  wind, 
and  the  great  grey  gulls,  the  Mersey's  scavengers, 
are  screaming  and  quarrelling  over  the  moist 
patches;  already  the  rising  water  is  lapping  over 
the  sandy  fringes  and  their  feeding  ground  will 
soon  be  covered.  Across  the  river  the  Cheshire 
shore  lies  steeped  in  the  broad  light  of  the  westing 
sun.  There  is  a  fresh  wind,  and  the  swift-moving 
clouds  cast  long  lines  of  shadow  on  the  land  and 
water. 

A  fine  sight.     We — the  Engineer  and  I — have 
been  sent  round  from  the  Clyde  to  meet  a  ship  on 

293 


294  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

arrival  and  are  now  waiting  to  join  her.  We  are 
certainly  better  here  than  in  the  bar  parlour  of  the 
'Admiral  Blake'  across  the  way  from  the  street 
gates. 

A  group  of  tugs  lie  anchored  off  the  'dock  en- 
trance waiting  for  the  ships  to  come  in,  and  the 
rising  smoke  from  their  funnels  shows  the  expec- 
tation of  the  ever-ready.  Those  inside  the  dock 
to  serve  the  outward  bound  are  already  casting 
off  their  mooring  ropes  and  getting  trimmed  for 
their  tide's  work.  Theirs  is  the  first  move  in  the 
'dock,  and  soon  they  will  be  canting  and  twisting 
their  charges  into  the  basins.  We  mount  an  erec- 
tion behind  some  huts  to  count  the  blue  peters  in 
sight.  Bold  among  the  spars  of  the  shipping,  the 
fluttering  tokens  of  departure  are  easily  recog- 
nised. .  .  .  "Thirteen  .  .  .  fourteen  .  .  .  fifteen. 
Fifteen  ships  ready  for  the  sea." 

"Av  coorse,"  says  the  Engineer  .  .  .  "this  is  a 
Setterday,  th'  great  sailing  day.  It  widna  dae  tae 
let  th'  sailors  hae  their  Sunday  i'  port.  Nae  fears ! 
They  maun  awa'  aff  t'  sea  t'  mak'  th'  siller. 
Mebbe  th'  owners — i'  th'  kirk  o'  Sunday — '11  pit 
up  a  bit  prayer  f'r  Jeck.  Mmh!  Mebbe  no." 

Away  to  seaward,  beyond  the  Crosby,  the 
smoke  wrack  of  incoming  steamers  is  blown  low 
on  the  water.  It  is  finely  clear,  and  we  watch  the 
vessels  rounding  the  lightships  and  bearing  up 
the  channels.  They  are  the  first  of  the  tide  load, 
and  being  in  good  time,  they  come  up  under  low, 


FLOOD  TIDE  AND  EBB  295 

steam  and  anchor  at  their  ease.  A  big  steamer  in 
light  trim  has  come  in  from  the  nor'ard,  a  ship 
for  the  Manchester  Canal,  for  her  masts  are  low- 
ered and  men  are  working  at  the  stagings  on  her 
funnel — she  must  be  no  more  than  sixty-eight  feet 
from  the  water-line  to  clear  the  lowest  of  the 
bridges  that  span  the  ditch.  There  she  goes, 
thrashing  her  way  up-river  to  be  ready  to  enter  at 
Eastham  on  the  level.  Others  are  there  at  the 
anchorage:  Scandinavian  timber-ships,  listed  awk- 
wardly and  with  deck  loads  piled  high;  ore-car- 
riers for  the  steel-works ;  a  fruit-steamer  from  the 
West  Indies;  the  Dublin  cattle-boat,  broad  of 
beam,  with  her  cargo  lowing  and  bellowing,  passes 
up  on  the  Cheshire  side.  There  is  no  sign  of  our, 
ship;  we  see  no  familiar  funnel  among  the  in-' 
comers.  Late. 

Life  and  movement  are  not  only  on  the  river 
now,  for  there  is  a  coming  and  going  at  the  'dock- 
head.  Boatmen,  pierhands,  stevedores,  and  shore 
gangs  are  turning  up,  looking  out  for  their  jobs, 
and  the  dock  people  are  shipping  levers  and  un- 
hooking hand  chains.  Elsewhere  in  the  city  there! 
is  little  work  done  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  but 
here,  those  who  serve  the  tide  must  come  at  the 
call,  day  or  night,  Sunday  or  weekday.  Tide  is 
the  tyrant  master. 

The  work  begins  among  the  small  craft.  A! 
bustling  tug,  towing  a  long  line  of  barges  and  river 
craft,  sheers  into  the  locks  and  brings  ug :  bumping 


296  'BROKEN  STOWAGE' 

and  grinding  together,  the  flats  in  her  wake  come 
to  the  lock  walls.  The  flatmen  sway  long  poles  to 
fend  their  boats,  cast  lines  one  to  the  other,  and 
shout  warnings  and  hails.  In  most,  the  lady  of 
the  barge  is  at  the  steering  while  her  man  tends  the 
lines.  Now  all  are  mustered  in  the  locks  and  the 
gates  are  swung  to.  The  water  swirls  and  eddies 
as  it  drains  to  the  river,  and  soon  the  level  is 
reached.  The  dockmen  hail  across  the  locks,  hand 
levers,  and  the  sea-gates  creak  and  strain  in  their 
opening.  One  behind  another  the  towing  lines 
come  a-taut,  and  the  barges  pass  out  into  the  tide- 
stream  and  line  out  behind  their  monitor;  black 
smoke  pours  from  her  funnels,  and  she  scurries 
up-stream  favoured  by  the  wind  and  tide. 

Now  the  big  ships  are  hauling  through  from  the 
inner  docks,  and  the  stir  and  bustle,  shriek  of 
steam-whistles,  churning  of  screw,  hoarse  orders, 
rattle  of  warping  capstans  are  heard  where  a 
short  hour  before  all  was  as  quiet  as  a  country 
millpond.  They  are  vessels  of  all  sorts  and  sizes, 
of  all  trades  and  many  flags :  huge  cattle-ships  and 
Western  Ocean  liners,  Levant  traders  with  their 
decks  stowed  over  with  waggon  frames  and  furni- 
ture vans,  a  French  barque  with  her  yards  canted 
at  all  angles,  a  Spanish  mail-boat  for  Manilla  (her 
much-bewhiskered  Commandant  holding  his  hands 
to  high  heaven  in  protest  at  the  way  the  Mersey 
pilot  swings  his  ship  to  the  gates). 

The  tide  waiters   are   increasing:  women   are 


FLOOD  TIDE  AND  EBB  297 

among  us  now,  gazing  anxiously  seaward,  enquir- 
ing, listening,  watching,  soothing  fractious  chil- 
'dren,  folding  and  refolding  shawls — each  with  a 
big  doorkey  in  hand.  The  tide  is  hard  to  them. 
In  the  Dock  Office  there  is  a  constant  whirring  of 
telephone  bells,  and  stout  elderly  gentlemen  pass 
in  and  out,  intent  on  the  ordering  of  their  ships. 
One  emerges  gloomily,  muttering  abuse  of  wind 
and  weather,  and  gives  orders  to  his  boatmen. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  says  the  leader.  "Come  on, 
'Arry.  'T  aint  ho  use  'angin'  'bout  'ere.  She  only 
passed  'Oly'ead  at  one,  an'  she  carn't  do  more  'n 
nine  knots.  Coom  on,  let's  be  orf.  It'll  be  an- 
other o'  them Sunday  mornin'  jobs." 

The  sun  has  gone  and  dark  is  setting  in.  Lights 
glimmer  along  the  shore,  and  the  electric  arcs  at 
the  dockhead  splutter  noisily  in  their  first  contact. 
The  Cunarder  passes  out  to  seaward,  resplendent 
in  tier  upon  tier  of  gleaming  ports.  She  looks  like 
a  seaport  herself — a  seaport  suddenly  drifted 
away.  The  dock  gates  are  now  wide,  and  the  out- 
ward bound,  in  timely  procession,  pass  out  and 
stem  the  flood.  To  some  eyes  they  may  seem  to 
be  in  hopeless  confusion,  a  dangerous  gathering 
of  moving  ships,  but  there  is  a  method  in  it  all.  A 
loud-voiced  dockmaster  from  behind  a  huge  mega- 
phone controls  matters,  and  the  basin  is  soon  clear 
for  the  ships  to  come  in. 

They  are  clustered  off  the  'dock,  marking  time 
till  they  get  the  order  to  come  alongside,  and  show 


298  'BROKEN  STOWAGE* 

a  bewildering  jumble  of  rapidly  changing  lights, 
red  and  green  and  white.  Smartly,  as  they  are 
called  on,  but  without  haste,  they  drop  out  of  the 
rush  of  the  tide,  one  after  another,  and  sheer  into 
the  east  lockway.  Like  their  sister  ships  now  rac- 
ing down  the  channels,  they  are  of  all  classes,  the 
freight  of  seven  seas  brought  up  on  one  tide. 

It  is  now  nearly  high  water.  A  lumbering  cattle- 
boat  is  breasting  her  way  across  from  the  Wal- 
lasey  stage  where  she  has  discharged  her  steers, 
and  the  dockmaster  keeps  the  gates  long  open  for 
her  entry.  With  her  decks  still  reeking  of  the 
hastily  disembarked  cattle,  she  passes  through — 
no  time  to  spare — and  the  huge  gates  are  swung 
to  behind  her,  locked  to  hold  the  prisoned  water 
till  the  next  high  tide. 

Our  ship  has  not  come  in:  there  is  no  word  of 
her.  There  will  be  fog  perhaps,  or  bad  weather 
in  the  Bay.  We,  too,  shall  have  one  of  these 
Sunday  morning  jobs. 

There  is  nothing  coming  in  from  the  sea  now, 
the  Canal-bound  vessels  in  the  Sloyne  have  all 
hove  up  their  anchors  and  are  on  their  way — the 
river  looks  lonely  after  the  stir  and  bustle  of  tide- 
time.  To  seaward  are  the  stern  lights  of  depart- 
ing vessels  and  the  gleam  of  the  warning  light- 
ships. Across  the  river  the  myriad  lights  of  the 
Tower  Grounds  are  reflected,  'dancing  and  shim- 
mering in  the  ebbing  water. 

THE    END 


A     000  071  327     1 


